A True Story The harmonics resonated in his chest as he paced the Chevy, the big in-line 4 Honda spoke secret language with certain engines. Trains were the best accompanists, huge diesels reflecting waves of sub-sonic sound, felt like the distant call of elephants. It was late, 140 miles to home, John needed a running buddy, at 80, shadowing the Camaro ahead, the 900F loafed along, it's rider stretched along her length, feet on the rear pegs, and chest on the tank-bag. A position so secure, he had actually fallen asleep for a half mile on the turnpike a few weeks before. ENTERING BREVARD COUNTY flashed by green and white, a speeders haven, fueled by the Space Race, patrolled by the most liberal police force in Florida, known for its open vistas and long lines of workers hurrying to their jobs at the "Cape." In twenty years John would run the same road northbound from Key West, greeting the foggy dawn on a 900 Ducati, side by side with an RR Honda, at well over 140 mph. Dicing through semi-trailers, open pavement and the cool mist of sunrise. John sat up, checked left, glancing in the mirrors he rolled in throttle as he came alongside the pony car, there was that throb. He waved to its driver wondering if he could feel it too. Eight-five was better, closer to cruising speed. A push on the right bar slotted him into the right lane, 2 feet right of the centerline, left of the grease trail, the expanse of interstate ahead felt like home. He had after all, been raised in the back seat of his parent's car, cruising had been the family pastime. He had driven eighty when he was 10 years old, shifting a VW bug without the clutch, not knowing most people had to use it. At 13 he became the copilot of a 1971 Dodge Challenger knowing speeds of well over 120 as his Daddy drank and did his Bolita, the unofficial illegal Florida Lottery of the day, they laughed together as the world whizzed by… yes he was born to speed… Dad never looked up when his son drove, for the road was all John saw. He settled back to the tank bag, cheating the wind. This bike was naked; John had removed the small fork-mounted fairing, losing with it a high-speed wobble. At speeds over 70, he leaned into the slipstream like a ski-flyer, a cushion of air against his chest, holding him weightless, easing the pressure on his wrist, his left hand floating loosely at his side scooping air. That riding style was for the warmth of the day, the chilly fingers of night air slipped through the zippered leathers encouraging the prone style, gloved left hand reaching beneath the tank to the cam cover, funneling warm air up his sleeve. Lane markers clicked by, flashing, sitting up, looking left, a semi rolled by him flirting with 100 mph. All-right, let's make some time! The rig merged right signaling with the array of lights along the trailer. Turbulence pushed the bike, inducing a fish-like wiggle. A 60-foot bubble trailed the truck. Cracking throttle John slipped into the draft and got comfortable. Like riding in a vacuum, he mused, the buffeting of the wind replaced by the warming tug of the highballing semi. At 95, drowsiness was not a problem. Soon he would be home to rest. There was that office job in the morning. Mile markers flickered by 38 seconds apart, fifteen or twenty had passed when the trailer lights flashed and began blinking right turn. John eased alongside waving thanks as the truck slowed for a rest area, NO FACILITIES, proclaimed the sign, herds of trucks slumbered, engines droning peacefully. One of them, a fast one, merged onto the slab ahead of him. Good, no solo, the pace would be quicker, cold gripped him damply, mist, forming droplets, slithered along the curve of his visor. Good God, this truck was moving! John dropped a gear, fourth snicked cleanly; the Honda surged toward the welcoming flash of trailer lights. Check the mirrors, no headlights. He settled to the tank, twitching the throttle, boot in harmony, no clutch, fifth gear. The warmth of the bubble enfolded him. 90. The needle climbed, 95, 97, and held. The rig was light, deadheading south. Polished aluminum like a huge silver quilt bounced the beam from his light. Woo; be home in no time at this pace. 120 miles to go now, John would be there soon. This man ahead was smooth, fast, predictable, the big-rig tracking liking a sports car. John knew he could trust him to slow if there were cops… settling in, set just far enough left of the trailer to see the median, a good 50 feet back, trusting his vision and reflexes. The miles flew by. For a long time, they neither passed nor overtook anyone. Alone together they thundered south. Speed, Oh yes, home but not sleeping. Then rumbling, so close, as the distant call of elephants, John glanced left expecting to see a passing car at over 100? A chill shot through him. It was not someone passing. It was another truck, 10 feet behind him, and no lights on, murder in his heart. John sat up, nailed the throttle, dodging left to go around his running buddy. That however was not their plan, in the time it took for John to sit up, realize the danger and react, the truck ahead had begun to whip his trailer back and forth. He was creating a deadly roadblock, surely, this cannot be real, John thought, just a small joke. If there was grace that night the truck behind was heavy… the one ahead light. Repeatedly, John tried to pass; now the trucker ahead showed his real skill, the trailer slewing from one side of the road to the other, throwing gravel with each snaking pass. Time stopped… there was just the speed, the sound, the adrenaline. On the fourth or fifth passing attempt, John had come nearly half way round the thing ahead… on the left… that was it. The trucker was confident; on his left he could see John, thought he had him. John held it there as long as he could, that huge thing coming at him, they had both gained ground on the chaser.He swung to finish John off. John held, eternity slightly to his right, then braking at the last second, all the front lever he could grab, bending that big beautiful bike for all she had to the truckers blind side, the bike danced, hopped… still in fifth gear she had a little more for him. John went as hard to the right as he could played the good fake… got along side… waited for him… here he comes hold it…. make him think that’s all you have… that’s it! Come on… come on… John grabbed all the brake he had, the trucker had totally committed to the kill, that’s it baby, now lets fly… John banged downed to third gear, the 900 screamed. They were at 100 mph as John laid her back left and surged for life. Breaking the slipstream banging fourth gear the bike wheelied, moaned, she had never pulled this hard, the back tire bit in, forcing his weight down and forward John planted the front wheel. Left lane, the opening was small. The 900 walked the edge of the left stripe. Time stretched, vision became a dot….The trucker had gone for the fake; dust flew from the right side of the road. John could see him working the wheel pulling it back across the centerline, the cab careening left for one last attempt. The trucker had recovered, knifing across the asphalt closing the gap to the gravel on the left, inches to spare; John was alongside the tandems, the stacks of the truck belching black… There! Got the Bastard! John tucked, banged fifth, flicked off his lights, and held the throttle open… My god, there was no one else on the road anywhere. The 900 flew, no time to look, searching for an exit. John tucked making himself as small as possible falling through the blackness at 130 mph; he dare not turn on the lights. They would never see him if he could do that… just hold it wide open… see as you have never seen... Hope there is nothing in the road. An exit, John knifed into it, instinct carrying him, he glanced back. The headlights were dots, slow, brake, downshift, stay with her, yes there is the service road, slow but not too slow go west… get distance… breathe. A mile from the slab, at a dead end, John dropped the kickstand and waited… minutes went by, just him and the blackness of night… then they passed, close together, lights blazing, never seeing him.