life in the fast lane

Not wanting to think about the Poison Dwarf's latest scheme (more about that later) all weekend, I accepted a last-minute invitation from the motorcyclist I met near Hillsboro a while back. He was headed to an antique motorcycle show south of Waco and suggested we meet near Hillsboro and take his bike the last 60 miles. He said he had a new motorcycle - a BMW - that was more suited to passengers than the Triumph.

We meet up and have coffee. He's very sweet. After a few minutes, I realize that this is one of the few times in my life where I've played hard to get and had it work.

He loans me a helmet and starts up his new motorcycle, a BMW K1200S. It didn't sound like a motorcycle; it sounded like a cross between a sports car and a jet engine. He then mentioned that this was the same model that won some world-famous time trial.

What was the top speed during the time trial? I asked.

176 miles an hour, he replied.

We took the scenic route to the show. I thoroughly enjoyed the ride, the show, his company. He never went over 50 mph. One strange thing I noticed about riding as a passenger is that one isn't embarrassed to snuggle up to a relative stranger, even when your busty substances are pressed against his back. I guess you're too concerned about staying on to think about it much.

On the way back, I thanked him for going slow on the way to the show, and said that he could go faster if he wanted - do some "barn burners", as the moto-babblers say. He took me up on it.

By then, I'd figured out how to sit up straight enough to see the speedo without throwing the bike off balance. It was odd; sometimes he didn't seem to be going that fast, but the speedo would read 70 or 80 mph. Eventually we got to a perfectly straight, deserted road. We were going faster than usual. I was glad I'd taken up his suggestion to wear earplugs. I realized the wind was moving my helmet around, since it was a size too big.

I managed to peek over his shoulder again. He was going 104 miles an hour.

For a terrifying ten seconds I thought about falling off, or crashing, and how I might die. How I might end up. How it had been stupid of me to not make out a will, or arrange for Rachel to delete everything on my computer in case of my death. I thought I should apologize to a couple of people pretty sharpish.

But after those ten seconds, I didn't care any more. All I could think about was the exhilaration, the adrenaline, how the K1200 sounded, the warmth between our jackets. I watched the road go by under us in a silver blur.

By the time we said our goodbyes, which included a single yet satisfying kiss, I wanted my own motorcycle.