'' Then into first gear, forgetting the cars and letting the beast wind out....thirty-five, fourty....then into second and wailing through the light at Lincoln Way, not worried about green or red signals, but only some other werewolf loony who might be pullin gout, too slowly, to start his own run. Not many of these.... and with three lanes on a wide curve, a bike coming hard ahs plenty of room to get around almost anything.... then into third, the boomer gear, pushing seventy-five and the beginning of a windscream in the ears, a pressure on the eyebalss like diving into wate roff a high board.
Bent forward, far back on the seat, and a rigid grip on the handlebars as the bike starts jumping and wavering in the wind. Taillights far up ahead coming closer,faster, and suddenly--- zaaapppp-- going past and leaning down for a curve near the zoo, where the road swings out to the sea.
The dunes are flatter here, and on windy days sand blows across the highway, piling up in thick drifts as deadly as any oilslick.....instant loss of control, a crashing, cartwheeling slide and maybe one of those two-ich notices in the paper the next day: ''An unidentified motorcyclist was killed last night when he failed to negotiate a turn on Highway I''
Indeed...... but no sand this time, so the lever goes up into fourth, and now there's no sound except the wind. Screw it all the way over, reach through the handlebars to raise the headlight beam, the needle leans down on a hundred, and the wind-burned eyeballs strain to see down the centerline, trying to provide a margin for the reflexes.
But with the throttle screwed on there is only the barest margin, and no room at all for mistakes. It has to be done right....and that when the strange music starts, when you stretch your luck so far that fear becomes exhilaration and vibrates along your arms.You can barely see at a hundred: the tears blow back so fast that they vaporize before they get to your ears. The only sounds are wind and a dull roar floating back from the mufflers. You watch the white line and try to lean with it.... howling through a turn to the right, then to the left and down the long hill to Pacifica........letting off nowm watching for cops, but only until the next darkstretch and another few seconds on the edge.......The Edge.......There is no honest way to explain it because only the people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over.The others-the living- are those who pushed their control as far as they felt they could handle it, and then pulled back, or slowed down, or did whatever they had to when it came time to choose between Now and L ater.
But the ege is still Out there.
Bent forward, far back on the seat, and a rigid grip on the handlebars as the bike starts jumping and wavering in the wind. Taillights far up ahead coming closer,faster, and suddenly--- zaaapppp-- going past and leaning down for a curve near the zoo, where the road swings out to the sea.
The dunes are flatter here, and on windy days sand blows across the highway, piling up in thick drifts as deadly as any oilslick.....instant loss of control, a crashing, cartwheeling slide and maybe one of those two-ich notices in the paper the next day: ''An unidentified motorcyclist was killed last night when he failed to negotiate a turn on Highway I''
Indeed...... but no sand this time, so the lever goes up into fourth, and now there's no sound except the wind. Screw it all the way over, reach through the handlebars to raise the headlight beam, the needle leans down on a hundred, and the wind-burned eyeballs strain to see down the centerline, trying to provide a margin for the reflexes.
But with the throttle screwed on there is only the barest margin, and no room at all for mistakes. It has to be done right....and that when the strange music starts, when you stretch your luck so far that fear becomes exhilaration and vibrates along your arms.You can barely see at a hundred: the tears blow back so fast that they vaporize before they get to your ears. The only sounds are wind and a dull roar floating back from the mufflers. You watch the white line and try to lean with it.... howling through a turn to the right, then to the left and down the long hill to Pacifica........letting off nowm watching for cops, but only until the next darkstretch and another few seconds on the edge.......The Edge.......There is no honest way to explain it because only the people who really know where it is are the ones who have gone over.The others-the living- are those who pushed their control as far as they felt they could handle it, and then pulled back, or slowed down, or did whatever they had to when it came time to choose between Now and L ater.
But the ege is still Out there.
