Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
The package may have been a setup on a change of pace; Kevin was so soft-spoken and well-
mannered. Maybe the package was to balance the softness. Speculation came later.
The night of our gathering, Smoker Eve, Kevin drank in the lead, bonding till daybreak.
Not to worry, ninety minutes of sleep would be plenty for three hundred fifty miles of desert,
mountain pass and high plateau—if a man was a biker and a Canadian,
ey
. He only needed a
quick stop at a drugstore for some of that stay awake shit, a half bottle or so oughta do it.
Bug-eyed and twitchy, Kevin rode well enough for forty-five minutes out of town to the
first sweeps that soon tightened, rising to the pass. A few guys had an eye on him, but when
his head wobbled, his loud laugh let them know: didn't mean shit, not if a man was . . . yadda
yadda.
By the sweeps everyone was deep inside and outside; this is what we came for. Blue sky,
sunbeams, charged air, a thousand moving parts coherent as a babbling brook converged on
a greater flow. We climbed to the third sweep, where Kevin eased over to the shoulder and
a sand drift, till his wheels broke loose. He went down flailing, bouncing, skidding, breaking
ribs, puncturing a lung, trashing his ride and hanging things up for the three hours it took to
get the ambulance and flatbed in, and Kevin and his motorcycle out.
Kevin never came back. His neighbor, Gino Marcione, had invited him on the ride and
after his low-speed crash caused by sleep deprivation and a NoDoz OD, Kevin fell out with
Gino. Why? Gino said, “Fuck if I know why. Guy must be a prick or something.”
And that was the end of that, till a few years down the road on an understated sweep at
low-speed just after lunch, when Gino drifted off the shoulder and went down. I saw Gino
two years later and asked what happened. “Fuck if I know. Fucking road just . . . fucking dis-
appeared.” Gino was succinct on a tender subject he'd cogitated many times, pressing for the
why with the most difficult follow-up: could it happen again? Gino was the second guy.
Anyone with a few miles or a hundred thousand knows it can end in a blink. With a few
seasons in all conditions you think you can avoid it—or avoid the avoidable at any rate. But
you know the rule of the road: shit happens. You take a calculated risk by first calculating the
risk. Details in stories of crashes usually involve at least one of four factors: youth, speed, li-
quor and urban traffic. Car creaming is a major threat and can happen anywhere, often in the
left-turn lane, while you wait.
The boys didn't scoff at safety but did not want to appear overly concerned. They would
rant and rave about the blind bitch who came in for the kill. Safety stops allowed for sharing
thoughts on road hazards to keep everyone alert and stoned.
What? A bunch of guys on motorcycles are supposed to stand around with no dope? That
wouldn't be likely. But a seasoned rider processes stimulants better than an unseasoned rider.
It goes to second nature. The calculated risk is weighed against the jackpot payout of joy in
movement. With acceptable odds, you make the bet. These and other thoughts and joints pass
round the safety stop.
