KENTUCKY

Tobacco. Brown, rolling tobacco. Potholes, cops, tobacco. The split in the fuel tank is significant now and my long-range bomber's distance has been curbed from a solid 220 miles per tank to 190. I am leaking fuel non-stop as I sweep down the highways, running 100, letting the semis far down the road break the radar waves. They rarely let an alert biker down, their population so high these days that they can use their CBs to watch for police as well as the troopers can patrol for outlaw bikers doubling the posted speed limit.

Fatigue is beginning to be a factor as I watch the odometer flip past 978 for the day. Darkness is settling. Tobacco field. I am experiencing my own kind of sundown. The ride from Spearfish to Lawrence, Kan., and the sister's house was a long one, but this ride, without a starter and a bike that is becoming increasingly more difficult to fire, is going to be a monster. Tobacco field, trooper. I will try to ride to Miami Beach and friendly mechanics who won't bleed me dry with towing and phony hourly rates and parts I probably don't need or want. Tobacco field. Besides, I've still got some zombies to herd together and drive out of the skull. Tobacco field, two troopers.

By Kentucky I've gotten used to the sound of burning gasoline on the heads at the gas pumps, though I can barely hear it over the idling bike. I no longer turn it off, merely pumping it full of fuel, stretching, getting back on and rolling before it can melt itself in the blazing August heat.

TENNESSEE

Three states to go. Twenty-six hours in and 1,120 miles on this "day." Midnight, the highway is mine, all those with starter motors having pulled over long ago.

Night is the hardest time to ride when you're exhausted. It would be one thing to ride 48 hours straight, but it's something entirely different after first riding 2,300 miles to Sturgis, partying a week straight and then riding 900 miles, before riding 48 hours straight.

I stop for gas. The station is closed. The pumps automated. I listen to the bike thump. Such a desire to shut it down and just hear some quiet and lie down on the soft asphalt and sleep until dawn. Surely it'll start again. What bull crap I tell myself as I hang up the pump. The fucker barely started hot. It'd never start ice cold.

Out of the parking lot I roll, taking the highway and rolling through the Baker 6.

Darkness makes the miles creep past. Nothing to take your mind off screaming muscles or boredom. This is when your demons will attack. During times of sensory deprivation they come calling, reminding you of your shortcomings, your insecurities, your failures. Rolling depression. Self deprecation. A sense of ultimate failure. A constant, burning tone in both ears. How could it have all gone so terribly wrong? So many poor decisions, so many hurt feelings. Pain, with no visual music to take your mind off it. Repeating highway lines, dizzying asphalt patterns. Cold. Hunger. Closed restaurants that serve no coffee and no joy. Loneliness. A sense of utter singularity that is a unique and ubiquitous pain. Roaring, punishing wind. Rain. Big raindrops. Gusting winds. A heart full of anger and confusion and despair. Full-on rainstorm. I cut the throttle and squint into the stinging water. Visibility drops lower and lower. Quickly my western boots are permeated and I feel the water standing in the heel of each. Colder. Forty miles per hour. Now the distance really gets an upper hand. I am losing the psychology war against the night. Harder rain. Thirty-five miles per hour. The road vanishes for short periods of time in the blinding rain. My goggles fog. I stop to switch to clear glasses. They're only slightly better and now the rain splashes off both cheeks, keeping me constantly blinking. Huge lightening. The wind increases from the side. Hydroplaning. Soaking wet, shivering. I am riding into space, having left earth long ago. Where now are the friends? Where now is the payoff for the effort and the laughter? Where is the next mile marker? Rain. Darkness. An endless purgatory. I curse the starter and "No Vacancy" signs.

I stop for fuel. The tank isn't empty, despite the leak, but I have to stop. I am constantly hitting the rumble strips on the shoulder and the rain is freezing me, lulling me toward a crash.

The tank only takes two bucks worth of fuel, letting me know it wasn't all that long ago that I stopped. The stops are becoming more frequent now as I wear down. If I could only find a bit of grub, that would give me a calorie boost. I down the last of a bottle of Gatorade I was saving. Fuck I'm tired. The ride has become work now and all I can think of is getting home to Miami Beach and going to bed. But Miami Beach is a hell of a long ways south still, entire states south, and I convince myself to try and extract some enjoyment out of the run.

I cap the tank, get on and sweep left out of the station. WHAM! I nearly dump the bike as the kickstand catches on an underground tank lid. The bike slides sideways, I make a massive attempt at a recovery, nearly dropping it on the wet, oily street. A pinging sound fades into the ditch. The kickstand is gone. I can't believe it. The entire kickstand has been sheared off and bounced into the deep, grassy ditch. I look around in the Tennessee night. Nothing. Even if the kickstand hadn't been lost, I wouldn't have been able to put it back on without a rack or someone to hold the bike. Well, that settles it, I thought, I'm riding back to Miami Beach, straight through, from Kansas.