We left Sun Valley sometime after 9. In the next town we rolled into a coffee shop owned by a young Hamster prospect who also owns a popular coffee joint in Sun Valley called ....

Todd is a tall young rider who escaped the city to live in Sun Valley. He rode a custom but wrapped himself heavily with leathers, chaps and a full- faced helmet even though the temps were bouncing into the 90s. It was interesting talking to him about his business philosophy. At one time he was up to five joints, but the pressure was tearing at him and the profit was not worth the daily anguish. He ended up selling most of them off so he could enjoy what he had. Again, Chris and I ordered coffees and a small oatmeal muffin anticipating that we would be rolling out before too long. Veronica ordered an extensive breakfast with some lavish mocha mixture topped with whipped cream, cherries and cinnamon that she enjoyed between cigars. I rapidly saw the time slipping away and suddenly couldn't contain myself. "Wind 'em up, goddamnit," I shouted and headed for the poised racing Buell that sat at the curb like a thoroughbred straining for the open road.

Lon is one of the fastest riding Hamsters and the two of us don't hesitate to turn the throttles to open. We burned through 33 miles whisking along open ranges into the small town of Carey. Lon pulled over to what appeared to be an old-time mechanics barn, which turned out to be a gas station converted into a roadside bar. Lon ordered beers and pickled eggs from the gallon jugs behind the bar. My pappy used to like dem eggs no matter how old the fuckers were. I avoided the beer, but I knew Lon was a drinker anytime, even at 10:30 in the morning. Lon complained that he had recently replaced his neck bearings but was sensing a high-speed wobble. We discussed his adjustments and the fact that he had strapped his tool bag to the front end.

Blowing out of town we headed to Arco for gas, then through a valley surrounded by volcanic rock that looked like the moon. On our way into Arco, Lon and I raced up to 120 mph. In most cases the Buell smoked past the stroker. Its stability allowed me to putt at 120 without batting an eye. We almost missed Atomic City and our turnoff toward Blackfoot on Highway 26.

We stopped at the H-D dealership where Todd was going to attempt to get his rear tire changed. He had the tire shipped in and tried to set up an appointment to have it removed, but the dealership wouldn't take a reservation. The appropriate tube hadn't been ordered and they said they couldn't replace the tire. I had a different dilemma - the frame of my new Easyriders sunglasses had split and the wind was hitting my eyes. Even when I was on staff at Easyriders, I'd questioned the quality of some of its products. This was just one example. I bought a pair of adjustable wraparound glasses from the H-D dealership and they worked like a charm.

From Blackfoot we snaked along an outstanding ride to Swan Valley to 31 to Victor for ice cream, then 24 miles to Jackson on 22. Despite the clouds, it was blistering hot and we were anxious to find the Hamster hotel and something cold to drink.

We shot the shit with some of our yellow-shirted brothers, but made our evening low-key for the final ride into Thermopolis the next morning with the group. But another evil faction was working its manipulative desires on the two of us. Veronica became immediately aware of the vast shopping delights spread throughout downtown Jackson and was determined that we shop before pulling out of town. Perhaps I was missing the sexual favor negotiation for a couple hours of shopping. I gave in anyway, and we had coffee as the pack pulled out of the parking lot at 9 a.m.With our clocks synchronized we rode into town and set the cuteness free to roam the art exhibits and clothes barns, but she had to be back on the bike at noon. The doctor and I made our way first into the Million Dollar Saloon and had a beer, then broke down and snuck into a couple of shops ourselves. We ultimately hunted Veronica down and reeled her in at high noon, but that's when all went amiss.

Chris and Veronica pulled out into the opposing lane while I was watching a traffic jam. They made a U-turn when I was told that we were making a left at the light. As soon as I made the left I knew I was wrong. I turned around, but got hung up at lights. I finally found the correct highway and headed out of town, sure that I was running behind them. I was heading north on 191, but avoiding Yellowstone, which was closed because of a forest fire.

I was delayed by several highway construction zones, which assured me that the doctor was still ahead. I turned right on 26 heading through Dubois, where I stopped for a beer and a tank of fuel. By then I was confused. I should have caught up with them, but hadn't, so I took a gamble and left my bike on the corner so they'd spot it if they were behind me. Generally, if they were behind, they would have caught up in 10 minutes. So after a half hour I straddled my reliable steed and headed east. As I passed through the old western town of Dubois that runs along a picturesque length of the Wind River, I decided I'd like to hang my hat in that town someday and work on a book about the character Chance Hogan. I'm currently working on the first book of a series.

I thought a lot about the future on this ride. I plan to write a book a year, and for each book I will spend a month or two in a town for research andexperience. Another thought crossed my mind: Marjo, the ex-evangelist I met at Lon's party, indicated an interest in turning my latest book, "Sam 'Chopper' Orwell," into a movie. Although it was a party, he impressed me with his desire to help create a biker movie that stood out from past movies.I was determined to tell Layla that if something happened to me on the run to Sturgis to make sure that Marjo got a copy of the book. I wanted to do that for her future, to make sure that if I were gone, there was some financial backing for her and her kids. When I walked back to the lonely Buell on the corner, I pulled out my cell phone and called her. She was perplexed by my thoughts but made a couple of notes and said thanks. I found out in Thermopolis that Chris and the lovely Veronica were in Dubois at same time I was, just at the other end of town having a bite to eat.

About 40 miles out of Dubois I came to a fork in the road. I followed the lane to the east, but was suddenly unsure of my direction and pulled in to an old wooden saloon in Morton. I asked an old guy if I was on the right road to Thermopolis and he assured me that I was not lost. Then a ratty truck pulled up carrying a small young woman who was hanging on the steering wheel. It was her bar so I felt that I should at least have a cold glass of whiskey and some jerky before I hassled with the gravel rode to the highway. Besides, I could confirm my directions.

She was a kindly sort who had just taken her 84-year-old mom home. That was the subject of her conversation, which brought me back to the eulogy for Layla's father. I pondered her thoughts while checking out the rugged interior of her pub, the rocky tables, the hundreds of signed dollar bills plastered behind the bar, the rickety fans shaking from the ceiling. I shared the jerky with one of the dogs that ran along the top of the bar, finished my drink and confirmed my directions. I was to ride less than 4 miles to 133, turn left to 134, which was less than a couple of miles, and ride to the intersection of 26, then head north to Shoshoni. I had been through Shoshoni several times but the route seemed different to me. Still, I nodded and hit the road.

I found 133 to Pavilion, which almost seemed a side street, but I took it. It was straight and even and I blasted into Pavilion and got off at the main intersection. Something didn't seem right so I went inside the local bar. There were only two customers and neither had a friendly grin. I interrupted their conversation just the same. "I'm on my way to Thermopolis. Am I headed in the right direction?"

"Just head back down the road for three-fourths of a mile until you get to 134 and hang a left. 'Bout 22 miles to the intersection of 26 to Shoshoni."

I thanked the gents and headed toward the door. I was a tad concerned about my riding partners, but knew it was only 60 miles to Thermopolis. I was determined that if they had broken down I would return to them as soon as I found out what had happened. As I walked outside an old gent got out of a pickup and said hello. "Where you headed?" he asked in a voice so slurred I could barely understand.

"I'm heading to Sturgis, but need to find Thermopolis tonight."

"Yep, you'll find it," he said and stumbled into the saloon.

I was glad I wasn't sharing the road with him. I was getting edgy about missing my riding partners so I wanted to keep moving. I nodded at the gentleman and straddled the thoroughbred waiting patiently for the open road. We headed straight out of Pavilion to the small junction of 134 and turned left. The road was narrow but open and there were few houses. It was mostly fields and cattle. I kept my speed reasonable for fear of something rolling out of the side of the road or out from behind a tree or gate into the highway. It was a beautiful ride that I wished I were sharing with my partners.

Arriving at the intersection of 26 north to Shoshoni, I recognized the trappings of the open highway. I pulled onto it, rapped through the smooth Buell gears until I was peeling through 90 mph and shoved my feet onto the rear pegs. I screamed right into Shoshoni, where I investigated every gas station looking for my pals. Then I headed north on 20, around the Boysen Reservoir and along one of my favorite riding strips in the country.

As I passed the Reservoir I headed alongside a canyon that surrounds the Big Horn River and passes a small log cabin next to the road that sells bait and fireworks. The highway rolls along the right side of the narrow canyon with the river running down the center and railroad tracks along the left. The banks are high and lumbering and the road runs through a number of narrow tunnels. Every year I look forward to rumbling along the mildly twisting turns.

Each turn is beautiful and the log cabins are perfectly placed. Each is carefully landscaped and surrounded by white teepees for campers. I stopped for a soda and hoped that the good doctor would find me. The area is called Wolf Creek and as I spoke to the elderly clerk inside, I discovered that the property and business were for sale. The acres of carefully formed land along Wind River Canyon are a piece of heaven. They are only a handful of miles from Thermopolis, but probably a terrible investment for the majority of each year. It was one of those rare times when I wished I could write a check just for the sheer joy of owning a piece of summer paradise.

Just 20 minutes later I pulled into the Holiday Inn in Thermopolis and inquired about my partners. They hadn't arrived. I did a small wheel stand past the brothers in the parking lot working on their bikes and found my room. From the room I called the doctor's cell phone and left a message. I looked out the window at the barbecue being set up in the back of the hotel, at the wind bristling through the surrounding trees and a gang of Hamsters sharing the in-house mineral baths. Thermopolis is noted for its natural hot baths that are said to have healing properties. I showered and called the lobby for information about my partners. No word, so I laid down on the bed. There was another item on the agenda for the night.

A girl, Deborah Wood, who I met four or five years ago in Wyoming, had become a friend and sometimes a lover. She had become my Wyoming girl, and this year volunteered to throw a book signing party at her business in Woreland. I left her a message too. As I laid back on the bed I heard a knock on the door. It was the doctor. "Damn, it's good to see you, brother."

"I thought you were ahead of me," I said.

"I went back to the hotel after I waited for you on the edge of town," he said.

"I rode around downtown..." I said.

"I waited at the Million Dollar Saloon..." he tried to explain.

I felt like shit, but was glad to see him and Veronica. "You were right about my bike," Chris said, "I cleaned the connections and it started all day."

I was relieved that he wasn't having mechanical problems, but I was still bummed that we hadn't hooked up. They showered and we met downstairs for the barbecue and talked again about the different routes we took and the time we shared in Dubois. They left Dubois and rode straight into Riverton, then north on 26. I was just relieved to see them and determined that we would set a rule in case it ever happened again. Then my cell phone rang and Deborah's voice was on the end of the line.

"I'll come and get you," she said. "No, no, I'll ride over." It was the least I could do. I finished my ribs and thanked Thomas for the party. Each year on the run to Sturgis he celebrates his wife's birthday by throwing an event. I ducked back in my room and grabbed my vest. I didn't know what the wild brunette had up her sleeve. I slipped out the back door and fired up the Buell. I was close to hitting reserve, but sure that Woreland was close. I dressed light and rolled onto Highway 20. I passed a road sign that said Woreland was 32 miles away. I checked my trip/gas gauge. I had been 129 miles and was due to hit reserve at 150. On the other hand I had hit reserve at 138 miles also, so I wasn't sure, but since a woman was waiting I didn't want to turn back for fuel. I took my chances. I wasn't sure how far I could get on reserve so I watched the trip gauge closely.

It was early evening and the sun was dipping, plus a bank of clouds was strewn across the sky. Some 15 miles out I started to pick up some splattering on my shades and prepared myself for riding in a hard rain for the last half of the trip. At dusk the mountains were crimson and the full moon began to lift from the fields on my right. Wyoming has a spectacular view on almost any road and this stretch was no different. The splattering continued but as I rolled within a couple miles of town I discovered that it was a raft of small bugs and not rain, and to think that I had only hours ago treated my leather and tennis shoes with leather cleaner. I had just removed the splatter of butterflies from the Laughlin River Run. Now suddenly I was machine gunned with small gnats or who knows what. As I pulled into town I spotted a crowd of bikes in front of one of the downtown businesses, which I was sure was a saloon. As it turned out it was Deborah's Chimera Salon, 716 Big Horn Ave. in Woreland, and the riders were local guys who were starting a club called the Woreland Watchdogs. She asked me to pull the bug-splattered Buell inside and the party began.

She poured drinks and recruited all the cute girls from town to entertain while I signed books. We had one helluva night. After the party was over she showed me her facility. She lured me into a massage room where she worked me over before I rolled the Buell back into the street, found an open gas station and dealt with the place packed with teenagers and muscle cars. It reminded me of the '60s. With a full tank of gas I rolled into the main drag and onto Highway 20 heading south. I stopped at the edge of town to insert the foam ear plugs. It was near midnight and the night was warm as I turned the throttle on and slipped into the crouched position with my feet on the passenger pegs. The brilliant moon was nearly consumed by the string of clouds so I rested my finger on the highbeam switch to get a full view of the highway ahead.

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