STURGIS 2000, THE LONG WAY HOME

SOUTH DAKOTA

As I rolled out of South Dakota, I day dreamed about what it would be like to own a rubber mount with a windshield, a cushioned seat and a front brake. We all fantasize from time to time and this was my fantasy. Suddenly I could see red and blue flashing off my chrome.

"Oh you evil rat fuck sleaze bucket miserable mother of a whore!" I cursed as I let loose on the throttle and began to coast to the shoulder and my jail cell. I looked around. Nothing but empty expanse and a single two lane blacktopper for 50 miles. There was no sense in compounding the sentence by trying to outrun a radio with that kind of range. I was fucked. Hard.

I'd made it all the way to Sturgis and now I was going to get the law book shoved up my ass on the run home. Jesus Christ…

The trooper hit his siren.

"All right, you insolent motherfucker!" I hollered, as I coasted over. "Go to hell! I see ya!"

Rolling to the side, I tried to figure what the jail cell would be like. A view of the local gas station probably, where I'd see thousands of bikers passing for the next three days, heading home.

The trooper powered around me hard and roared off into the distance, waving. I was dumbfounded. What in the hell was that?

About a mile later I discovered what had gone down. The trooper had a woman in a Buick pulled over who had charged past me earlier. Apparently I wasn't the only one who'd witnessed her shameful mocking of the law. The criminal wench.

"You'll burn in hell!" I screamed as I roared past the godless offender, waving my fist in the air. The trooper gave me a blank look and continued writing the ticket.

It only took six hours to get out of South Dakota. I bought gas and burned gas and nothing else.

Somewhere in northern Nebraska I began to smell raw gas. I felt under the tank on the fly with my leather glove. It came back wet. The welder had apparently missed a spot. Screw it, I thought. If the bike blows, the bike blows. There's nothing I can do about it out here in cattle country, 800 miles from the nearest town.

Riding home. What a strange proposition. No goal. No race. A vacuous suck into the far south with no propellant other than gasoline and a need for an end to the journey.

Sprawling brown expanse, rise up against me asphalt opponent, I put you down. You rise up again, and again, I conquer you. Black serpent on your back I ride, whip and dance, crazed attempts to unseat me at top speed. No joy there, the Avons bite into your glossy back and I wring the gasoline out of the right handlebar.

Cattle, flowing cattle, enormous skies, vibrating, vibrating, vibrating, gas stations, dead, lonely, abandoned railroad tracks, sun-faded signs advertising products of years past. Coke! The refreshing five-cent pick-me-up! Gasoline powered engines sold here. Shoes, $2.

Sunshine, the shadow of the motorcycle slowly fading from the right side to the left. Thoughts of a German Feminine, long walks up fire roads in Palos Verdes, speedometer needle, flicking fence posts, moon light strolls with a partner gone by, mistakes, misunderstandings. Now you haunt me, you perfect wisdom, with your clarity of vision. Now you come after me, out here, when I am alone with nowhere to hide. Evil miscreant. Admissions at 90 mph, admissions of guilt, vibrating despair. Memories of days that went perfect and dreams of many more unrealized. Rolling notions of romance, spinning rubber, twirling chrome H-D rims, flexing forks, a young girl's kiss, silent cursing…

NEBRASKA

I hit the Nebraska border and called the little brother. I was running a course that would put me much farther east this time. I never take the same roads. I asked how far it was from where I was to the sister's ranch in Kansas. We figured I could make it by dark if I rode hard. I put the spurs to the RevTech 88.

Nebraska, who are you? Who are you with your lack of fame, your quiet security, sitting in history while the rest of the world charges madly forward? What peace is this which you hold, Nebraska, and from whence does it flow?

Could Nebraska know something other lands do not? Does it keep locked in its sprawling bosom a secret of undetermined value? I spread my arms wide and coast. Are you so full of wisdom? Is this why your rivers flow so wide and so low, brown water worms, belly up, sliding, sluicing? Should I stay and live naked on your anonymous plains?

A long back you have, Nebraska. You have fooled both me and my brother. The faster I ride, the wider and more expansive you seem to become. Your hot winds whither me and still you push Kansas farther south, holding it always just below my front tire. But I will break thee, Nebraska.

KANSAS

Twilight, 700 miles south of the Badlands. Reserve, petcock, a restart on the open road. A gas station. A man with a tale about his old friend, The Racer they called him. Did I know him? Of course I know him. I know everyone. Every man, woman and child is my brother. Rolling again. Whystop talking now? Yes, I know The Racer. He is my son and I his. Ditches, you are my cousins. All the pretty babies? They are my dark, wonderful sisters. The delta blues, I invented them. The Mississippi? I poured that river. New Orleans, Royal Street in the Quarter? I laid the purple bricks. Lafite's Blacksmith shop? I built that brick-between-post brigand outpost. Hell yes, I know The Racer. Delirious ditches, which promise to catch me at the slightest error. Fatigue, pain, 800.

Darkness. Headlight, are you my world now? Narrow headlight, tell me a story. Tell me a story of infinite night, a world which to you would be heaven and to me a permanent extension of nothing and nobody, a seizure of time, a cessation of clockwork, a ticking out of ticks. I am a dark and brooding angel of singularity, always rocketing south, down, away from the north, I am the polar and ionic wrongness of up, north is something which cannot faze me now.

The ranch house. All is dark. I am too late, I will sleep in the grass. Lovely grass, hold me in your arms and whisper with your waving Kansas blades about tales of great bison herds and gypsy Indians who sang songs to spirits that went out of style and were replaced by far more contemporary gods. Gods with economy and a sense of fashion, gods of convenience and gods that were not so damned demanding, always harping of discipline and valor, morality and generosity.

Headlights. Turns out they were just at the local fair. Fair time abounds in August. At last a real bed. It was 1,000 miles to this bed, making it a special bed indeed.

And then to sleep, where the journey continues. When a man spends enough time alone, speaking to nobody, he strikes up conversation within himself. These conversations, unlike mortal conversations, are not affected by sleep or itch or agony. They carry on despite themselves. And they can drive you mad if you are not especially careful with them. They can sometimes speak such pure and unsalted truth that they sting the tongue and burn the eye, causing them to water and the lower lip to quiver and dance.

Dawn. A young girl of 3 opens my eye for me with her tiny fingers. Time to get up, she tells me with a smile.

Breakfast, laughter, much talk from the wee one, a quick game of dolls and then I am off. Off, though I would rather stay, but I must ride south for all the aforementioned reasons. There were reasons mentioned previously, weren't there? Of course there were. There must have been. After all, I am again riding south.

MISSOURI

Missouri. Lunch. A roadside diner. A man who tells me his friend once found a motorcycle from Elvis in his barn. Name engraved on a gold plate under a rotted seat. Tuna fish sandwich. A stout swig of tea. Fresh gasoline. A dead starter.

A dead starter. It bears repeating. I push-start the Great Northern Steamer. Entirely dazed. I went 1,000 miles yesterday; 1,500 miles. Let's ride, goddammit, we're burnin' daylight.

Mile after mile after mile, I am a Jesus freak junkie eatin' reds on a hype tryke at the witch's hour gettin' 30 percent rear wheel spin at 140 on a back highway in the City of Love. My name is Horsepower and I am an egomaniac with an eggplant under my helmet and a can of oil shoved down my throat. Can I get an Amen…