South Dakota, Day 5 The sky turned a bland grey and the road a straightfoward black ribbon broken up by orange barrels and single lane crawls. Gasoline became hideously expensive and rest stops non-existent. This is where you start to find out if you're really in this kind of thing or not. Every little design flaw in your bike will kick you hard in the ass, from the "I don't need that cushiony a seat" to the ergonomics of your foot and hand controls. Luckily, apart from a seat a little too hard and the unavoidable problems with an air cleaner making my knee bend at an awkward angle for miles, I was doing okay, though the strain of days of steering and moving were starting to take their toll. My eyes hurt from the sun, my skin was burned, and my clothing got heavier as time wore on. A few miles after Wall Drug I pulled over for the familiar gas-pump logo. It was a small town of twenty to thirty houses, with a small museum the size of a strip mall convenience store and a gas station. I dismounted to find it abandoned. The wind rustled across the plain, and the metal sign I now realised was from the 80s swung creakily on its hinges. It was like a horror film. The house to my left had the front door open. I peered in, cautiously, in case people were actually there and I got it wrong. But apart from the evidence of somebody having left most things behind, but having basically abandoned the site, there was nothing. I walked down the street, feeling and hearing my boots crunch against the gravel of the road. I looked and felt like Mad Max, a tattooed man in a black T-shirt and armored leather walking through a town like the Marie Celeste. And then one of the houses gave me this vibe that said COME IN. COME INSIDE. THERE MIGHT BE SOME COOL STUFF IN HERE. GO ON. OPEN THE DOOR. I got on my bike and left. Iowa, Day 5 I'd heard jokes about Iowa. But apart from the silos and sleepy little towns, I liked it. The beauty and the architecture of Sioux City was awesome after hours of little to look at save construction crews and grass that barely bothered to grow. Turning eastward, I rode through territory that was closer to what I remembered the East looking like, the grass varieties more familiar, the terrain and tree density familiar to my eyes. The road was straight, true and a good surface, and I racked up many miles in a hurry, liking once again to feel the wind in my face, though it was starting to painfully dry out my eyes. At a small town with a grain silo and machinery turning over the land, I found low-octane, mid-octane, high-octane and three-digit, ludicrously high octane racing fuel. Reapplying sunscreen and munching down on an ice cream sandwich, I sipped the Monster Energy drink and said hang the expense. Racing fuel in a hemi engine, if you can get it, makes the engine feel 20 years younger, and the next 120 miles were a complete blast. Illinois, Day 5 First true incident of road rage. Guy came across my bow by inches, nearly taking out my front wheel. So I gave chase. He saw me coming and streaked off the next offramp. Thankfully, that put my wits about me. I was going through the middle of Illinois, but it was still pretty hairy in parts. The rest of the trip was uneventful until Hot Damn 5 Ohio, Day 1 of the Final Leg I pulled into the gas station. The Persian gentleman behind the rack of pornographic magazines and energy bite chocolates took my $10 with gruff approval. I stepped back outside to see three baby boomer aged men walking up to my bike from the front. They'd clocked the obvious pack and the stuff lashed to the backrest and they themselves were wearing full leathers. "Trip huh? Us too! We're going ALL THE WAY to NEW YORK! It'll take us three or so hours to get there. We've been waiting for this trip for weeks, man! Where are you going to?" "Georgia" I replied friendlily. "Wow! That's a long ride my friend and...." he trailed off when he saw the license plate. WASHINGTON. By that point I had travelled well over two thousand miles over the course of days, fourteen hour stretches at a time. "uh, we... uh.... ride safe." They got on their bikes and sheepishly took off. They'd forgotten to get gas. To this day I have no idea why they did that. I hadn't given them any grief about it whatsoever. While I was there a member of a support club to one of the big four patch clubs rode up, clocked the plate and the gear and gave me an appreciative nod. I returned the gesture, and we rode off our separate ways. Tennessee, Day One of the final leg "Boy, do you know why I pulled you over?" The Statie had the mirrored sunglasses and the "don't fuck with me" facial expression. I was in the south now, and my iron cross patches and other biker paraphernalia weren't winning any points. Passersby were slowing down, and some people were nudging spouses and pointing. "Frankly, officer, no." He paused writing the ticket to point accusingly at the gasoline canisters on my bike. The same ones a noder had thought contained alcohol and was going to open, until I pointed out my comment that "those contain gasoline" was a literal statement and not describing some newfangled new cocktail. "It is illegal in this county to transport gasoline in unapproved containers. Unless of course yer gonna tell me that ain't gasoline." "No, they do indeed contain gasoline. But they are approved for petroleum use." I grabbed one and brought it to him, showing him the imprint on the side - APPROVED FOR PETROLEUM USE. They were designed to hold a litre of camping stove fuel, which is petroleum fuel. That litre could be the difference between being stranded somewhere and making it another 25 miles or so to me, though. The sunglasses came off. "Lemme see that?!!?!" He called to the other cop running my plate and ID. "Hey! Hey Leroy!!!!" The other cop came quickly, but slowed when he realised the officer next to me was smiling. "See this? This'd come in handy for our rides through the mountains! This little bastard holds just under a gallon of gass-sole-leen. Wheredja get this, boy?" "Camping/outdoorsman store. You fellas look like two red blooded men that hunt and fish, I'm amazed they haven't told you that use." "Never thought about usin wunna them for that. Hey, thank ya! You ride safe now, and have a nice day." All smiles. He tore the ticket up and waved as they got back into the cruiser. Georgia, FINAL DESTINATION Just outside Atlanta, in the dark, three things happened that could have closed my medical record for good. I was crossing in front of a sixteen wheeler. A dangerous move, but it was either that or ram into construction equipment that had been left in the road, unsigned. At the same time, the front exhaust pipe burst clear of the engine with a loud PUNF and the engine lost power, just as I needed it to clear the truck.
I was startled by the sudden change. I actually felt the truck brush my leg like the kiss of a butterfly wing as it roared by, horn blaring. I pulled over. I was glad of the need to re-bolt the pipe back on to the engine, because for the very first time in a long time, my hands were shaking. | 
