From Hedgehog

iiPod. Check. GPS. Check. A fuel stop, take a deep breath and roll out.

Surface streets on a weekday night, the sporadic couple of cars waiting at lights that seem to work on some other schedule than that which allows for a smooth flow of traffic. It's dark, it's late, it's warm out and the windscreen is all the way down. I want to feel the wind. I open my face shield wide and let the air swirl through my helmet.

It's a short trip to the freeway but I find each stoplight annoying. I want - no, I need - that wind in my face, my cheeks are begging for it. The vents are all open and I could be wearing a t-shirt save for the armor and abrasion protection that I could very well put to use.

The onramp speaks to me: GO. The bike is feeling light and third gear is the sweet range for bouncing off the rev limiter, then fourth and fifth, stil cutting out at the top. This bike is my best friend, and I'm sorry to hurt you darlin' but I really need to test this relationship and the only way to do that is to make sure you're going to be there for me when I need you. That time is now.

The half mile of onramp and merge lane yields an even 110 MPH and I can already see the blue lights of the state cop with his traffic stop up ahead so I back off and wonder if he can sense what I'm about at the moment. I slip by him, still standing at the passenger side of the rental car, he looks up and cocks his head but 65 at 7K is still only 65 and he knows it. So what if it sounds like shit.

Over the next rise and I'm back on the gas... 85, 90, 100... I quit looking because I'm sure I don't really want to know ("Do you know how fast you were going?"). Not too many cars around, just enough to make quick lane changes necessary and I need that slalom, that release, that feeling that somehow my machine and I own this piece of pavement.

The next set of blue lights tells me the freeway isn't going to cut it. Oddly enough there's another freeway up ahead and I know the area well enough to know that it'll take me to the sort of places I have in mind. Twisty places. A workout. Places where you'd better focus or you're going to be donating your retinas.

Set a random destination in the GPS and route to AVOID FREEWAYS. This heads me off on a four-lane surface street which is damn near deserted save for the occasional boom-boom Japanese import with a the coffee can hanging underneath. The kids look at me funny in my gear and on my big ugly bike and I couldn't care less. We have places to go, we have things to do, we have to test ourselves now and you wouldn't understand it.

A turnoff goes two lane, headed uphill. This is what I'm looking for. Bring it. I reach up and turn off the GPS altogether because I don't want to cheat, don't want to know what's coming up ahead, the GPS can get me home later when I'm through. Reach down and dial in the "Pissed Off" playlist on the iPod, shuffle the helmet a bit to set the speakers right up against my earplugs and I hear a voice in the wind: "Go. Go now." Leave the stop sign as Jane's Addiction pops off with "Up the Beach" and that first hit, the one that's always free, splits my head and I instinctively bang the throttle wide open and leave it there while speed shifting between first, second, third. I know I'm on it because the front wheel doesn't seem to touch the ground for a good long time.

Suburbia. I apologize, but I'm here to vent. This bike is normally quiet and I'm sure normally you wouldn't notice me rolling through your neighborhood, but with these revs I'm going to making a lot of racket and it's just... well, necessary. You understand. I promise to do my best to keep from hurting anyone.

Clear of houses except the ones with a decent bit of land and some setback - you can see the lights on but they seem far away. A sign promises S turns and recommends 35. Not tonight. The front end is sticky and the pavement is warm and I have some shit to get out of my system, and my friend, this ride, this tool, this machine, this fucker which has hauled my sorry ass around for almost 16,000 miles - this is gonna hurt. Again, I'm so sorry but I need you to suck it up and ignore how you feel for a while.

Green Day. "Jesus of Suburbia". A good groove with a strong beat and it suits this road. It's not loud enough to drown out the crap in my head, though, so the only option is to make more wind and engine noise. Game on. I can't see a damn thing because my PIAAs are setup for slab riding so I just shut them off and trust in the fogs. I think they're enough. If they're not then we'll figure that out soon enough.

Into a long right sweeper, third gear and God only knows what RPM, but the bike is overpowering Nitzer Ebb as I head left and for whatever reason I realize I've got a knee out, long past the point of previous commitment and faith in the GS' front end. The Anakee is good, indeed. Another right, some small hills, one wheel up and right back down again, I can't hear the engine but I can feel the vibe and I just flat-out guess as I slam from one gear to the next and back again. The residents must think the Chicken of Doom is upon them, running through the hills with no regard for anything other than the pure fucking release that's been so long in coming. Sometimes I'm lazy with my shifting and the resulting disconnect redlines this pig with the worst sound you've ever heard from a boxer - suck it up, that's what friends are for - so a dab of clutch and a snick of the toe and the throttle barely has time to snap back from WFO.

The first few turns are simply muscular excersizes. I try to push the pig through them, forcing it to do what I want, but to no avail - she fights me and I'm fighting her and climbing up on the tank to try to make things better but it's simply no use. Trust her. She knows what she's doing. Relax and she'll get you where you want to go.

I slow down enough to slide back on the seat, it's enough to hear my phone ring. My phone. Connection to the world, ADV and family and friends and people who are special. They need to wait a while, and they will, I bet. I reach into my pocket to turn it off, knowing that the little heartbeat it sends to refresh ADV and show that I'm around is going to take a break and so am I.

Patches of residential area, then nothing. 65. Are you ready to try again, I hear... let's do it. You lead. I'll just push the pedals.

One, two clicks on the iPod brings "Where the Streets Have No Name" and it's really time to lay into the throttle again. Downhill, uphill, I've lost track of where I am or where I might be but all I need is the comfort of a clear sky to find my way home when I'm ready so location isn't an issue and I can't be far from much of anything anyway. I'm still laying into the turns pretty hard, but using the bike instead of using it up, and she's there when I need it. At one point I see 120, a new milestone, dangerous speed but still in control, God, the control and the release, and as Bono in his good years belts out "Bad" I feel it coming on and I chop the throttle, lay into the binders and stop off on the side of the road sweaty and in tears. The helmet has to go. I want to throw up but all I can do is cry my eyes out and try to catch the breath that won't be caught until I'm too tired to try anymore and everything slows way, way down.

It's quiet here, wherever it is, all I can hear is the clicking of a very hot exhaust and the shudder in my chest when I try to inhale. And then - nothing. Not a sound. And I ask her, quietly, to take me safely home, and I'm sorry.

You don't have to apologize, I hear. Just GO. And so I do without the GPS and meander my way, slowly and quietly, back to the freeway for the relatively short ride home. With my friend. Thank you, friend.