ILLINOIS

The border passes like a blink. I slice the speed hard, knowing the troopers like to camp on their outer most jurisdiction. The helmet is barely on when I roar past a Johnny Lawman hiding in some brush off the interstate. A warm smile. You scum ball mother fucker. I wish him well as I crest the next hill and pull off the brain bucket.

Raw gas droplets occasionally sprinkle my face as the fissure in the sheet metal grows from a hairline to a couple of hairs line. As long as I ride fast, the wind will blow the explosive liquid down the underside of the tank, keeping it from dripping on the scalding hot RevTech 88.

Gas stations are another story. I shut the monster down and coast in, half expecting to rocket straight into the air when the big fucker goes. Sizzle, sizzle, sizzle, the gas drips on the front jug and evaporates instantly. Skate that edge you suicidal maniac, I think as I unhook the nozzle. $1, sizzle, sizzle. $2, sizzle, sizzle. I pull the ear plugs. Riiiiiiiiiing. $3, sizzle, sizzle. I make my own napalm. $4, sizzle.

I hang up the nozzle. Dead starter. Valdosta, Georgia. I take a lap at 100 degrees around the expansive semi lot, pushing, clutching, drowning in sweat. Another lap. The monster pushes me to a dripping stop.

"Fuck!" I roar as I contemplate shooting the gas tank and ending the ride.

Sixth, we'll try it in sixth. Around we go, running, faster, harder, hypoglycemia setting in as I begin to feel dizzy, running, farther, faster, pushing the gear-laden scoot. Clutch, chugga, chugga, a fire, chugga, chugga, fire, chugga, cough, pop, sputter, chugga… I stop, barely able to drop the kickstand before I drop the bike. The sun hammers down. The temperature is nearing 100. I strip off vest and shirt. Fifth gear, around we go, jogging 70, 80, 90 yards, chugging, coughing, throttling, choking, everything in the book. Dead horse.

"Need some help?"

Several truckers walk toward me, noting my heaving sides. I look like I've been swimming, jeans soaked from the waistline to my knees.

"Fried starter," I tell them.

"Got an '88 Fatboy," the fat one tells me.

"'77 shovel Narrowglide," says the skinny one with the Peterbilt cap covered with fishing lures.

"'90 WideGlide," the trucker in the stained T-shirt says, cracking his neck and stretching his back for the big sprint.

"'55 Pan, bro," the black trucker says, untucking his long-sleeve denim shirt and rolling up his sleeves.

"Bikernet, huh?" the fat man asks quizzically.

"Got Internet access?" I ask.

"Sure, in my truck."

"Go to 'Bikernet.com'. You'll find out," I tell him.

He nods.

"Let's all get behind it," one of the truckers says.

They're smaller men, under 180 pounds, but there are five of them, plus me, and we run considerably quicker. When we hit our top speed mark, I leap.

Cough, boom! The fucker dies as I over throttle and drown it. What an idiot.

"Shit…" one of them mumbles, hands on his knees, wheezing roughly.

These men are out of shape, they aren't going to be able to make more than two passes across the 100-yard parking lot before I lose them and their goodwill. If I don't catch it the next time, I'm going to be spending a fortune getting a tow truck to drag me to the local mechanic who's going to wrench my wallet.

"You want to try it again?" I ask.

Their faces are red, sweat virtually squirting out of them.

"Yeah, sure," one of them wheezes.

Off we go, running, slower this time. I give it all I can and leap. Boom!

A massive backfire burning the fumes and gas out and the RevTech 88 comes to life. I stop and look back. Strung across the lot are the truckers in various stages of death, each wheezing in the spot where his cardiovascular strength gave out. Slowly they gather themselves up and walk over to me, looking like track runners after having run the mile, hands on hips, sucking big air.

I put my long sleeve shirt back on to keep the sun from eating the skin off me in the deep south radiation zone.

"Much obliged, fellas," I tell them, puffing hard.

"Oh Jesus," one laughs, I think you'd better ride me over to the hospital so I can finish this heart attack the right way.

"Take me to the fuckin' morgue," another gasps.

Hands are shaken and I'm off, blistering down the asphalt at 95. The two-hour workout was enough to loosen up the horrendous knot in my upper back, which had grown so large I could actually feel the bound-up muscle group in a lump under the left trapezoid muscle.

Illinois, Illinois, take your time, I got all day, I think as I push to get through the state. Then I catch myself. Why would I be wishing myself through such a massive and memorable run? Most men rarely get to make Sturgis every year, especially from such a long distance. I was a fool for rushing it mentally. I sat back and watched the farm belt streak past. The fields and tractors, the horses and cattlemen, combines, hay swathers laying down windrows of alfalfa, augers pumping grains into storage bins and trucks, pickups delivering lunch and fresh water, circling hawks looking to pick up exposed mice, blazing sunshine, the smell of chaff drifting on the air, large vibershanks turning newly cut wheat straw, it all reminded me of my childhood growing up on our ranch in Kansas. I rode deep into time, rolling at 100 mph through half a million memories accumulated over 33 years. It was all part of the total journey.

Life is the ultimate wind in the face of the biker. He is a lost man, a gypsy, with brothers who streak past in the night, bug-stained beards beating time with the grand clock of the open road. He never drinks from the same glass, but always from the same bottle. He never sits in the same chair, but always eats with family. He never calls the same town home, but he's home every night when he shuts down.

A massive wheat field flashes by, yellow lines sewn by the spring drill pulled behind the old 630 John Deere or perhaps a Massy.

A biker has a vast point of relativity and can see the good in everyone and the bad in the few. Some run alongside brothers of 40 years like Little Joe. Some, like myself, often blaze alone, feeling the lift and fall of the highway as they ride as fast as their machine will go for 10, 15, 20, 30, 40, 50 hours at a pop.

If a man rides far enough, he will sometimes realize he's ridden so far that there's no longer enough time to turn around and go home before his life ends. It is at this time that he must simply press on into the unknown, and that unknown is time. If he rides hard as hell, he will one day, perhaps, make it clear home. But between him and that fateful day he coasts back into the driveway and hits the kill switch that last time, are thousands of miles, hazards, deer, rainstorms, snows, freezes, blown tires, busted belts, leaking hoses, split gas tanks, deserts with their scorching heat, potholes hidden in the shade of a lone tree, sand, sleet, hail, high speed front-end wobbles, crooked cops, dirty judges, horse thieves and bar fights. If he can ride through all of these without giving up, without getting planted, without getting lost and forgetting his final destination or drinking himself into a permanent stupor, he'll get home and the ride will be complete.