Update: Today, 40 years ago, I woke up in Normal, IL in time to have my first beer and settle down in front of the TV to watch the Challenger launch. I was half way through that beer and 70 seconds into the launch when all Hell broke loose and things were forever changed.

January 24, 1986

I met Matt a few months ago when we were selling encyclopedias for a fly-by-night outfit out of Phoenix called Lexington Andrews. A couple of round trips to Las Vegas and attempting to sell door to door in the really bad parts of the bad parts of the Las Vegas suburbs was proving to be not only unsafe but futile. I’d been harassed by youths on BMX bikes, threatened with clubs and knives, chased by dogs and called “fucking white boy” more times than I could recall. I went into a convenience store to beg a cup of coffee as I was freezing cold and I didn’t have a penny. The very large, black clerk asked me just what the fuck I was doing in this neighborhood. He made it clear to me that as a white boy I really needed to not be there. I hung out for a few minutes, trying to warm up, not being able to stay long as my handlers would be looking for me and got mad if I wasn’t on the streets. I went back outside and waited on a street corner to be picked up. Finally, enough was enough for us. He had nowhere to live. I had an apartment. I said he could move in with me. I found a couple of jobs. He didn’t. When he ran out of money and I wouldn’t extend any more credit, he went home to Carmel, CA, leaving me a motorcycle to pay me back part of what he owed me (like I needed a little Kawasaki 440 ltd). My neighbor Eric, however, did want the little Kawasaki, and he had a nice little compact AIWA stereo that he was interested in trading for it. I didn’t hesitate to make the exchange.

About two days later, as I am leaving for my day job at about 6am, and I ran into my neighbor Mark outside of his apartment on the way to my bike.

“I want my fucking stereo back.” he says to me.

“What do you mean your stereo? I got that from Eric.”

“It’s mine, he had no business trading you for it.”

Now honestly, Mark scared the shit out of me. He was 6’4″, and according to his roommate John, had been tossed out of the Air Force for being mentally unstable and violent. He had more guns in his apartment than I could count. He sat around all day smoking pot and playing with his guns. He had a very pregnant wife that took lots of peyote. He was one of those guys that always wore combat boots and fatigues and had that look in his eye like he was about to snap.

“Look,” I said, “I think that you need to take this up with Eric, I gave him the title to the bike Matt left me and what’s done is done.”

“I’m taking it up with you.”

“Well, you’re gonna’ have to take it up with me later, I’ll be home about six and I needed to be on I-10 five minutes ago.”

I walked past him, got on the bike and left, forgetting about the whole issue as I rode off to work.

Work was a blur. While I had been hired as the shop gopher, I had soon shown my merit as a machinist and at being able to solve design problems. The shop foreman and the company owner had moved me up in the mere month that I had worked there and I was running all sorts of cool equipment and using all sorts of cool tools. I was in heaven, like having one big playground to work in all day long. Best yet, they even paid me to be there and do the stuff. A-Product manufacturing was a cool place to be.

When I got home from work, Mark was waiting for me outside his apartment. I had to pass by his apartment on the sidewalk to get to mine.  “Hey Scott, come here a minute,” he called out to me from his doorway.

I walked over, and turned the corner to enter his apartment. Immediately, I was assaulted by a barrage of fists, pummeling me from what felt like all directions. My eyes filled with blood and I came crashing to the floor into his apartment. I couldn’t see and was totally disoriented. I thought I saw his wife out of the corner of my eye, just standing there. I think I was hearing John and his wife screaming at Mark. I crawled out of the apartment backwards as his boots were kicking me in the head. I pulled myself up on the doorframe and then slid back down the door, covering it in blood. As I crawled out onto the sidewalk I heard the door slam behind me.

Once in my apartment, I started looking for my gun: a .357 Ruger. Then I remembered that I sold it to my uncle in Florida. It was unregistered, and I didn’t have a gun owner’s card to carry it in any state. My uncle thought it would probably get me in more trouble than out of. Yeah, ’cause I’d be using it right now as God intended it to be used if I still had it. I never did think that I would have the morality to shoot someone, that’s the carrier’s dilemma. Is it ok under any situation to blow shoot someone? Legally I’d be justified. It would be self-defense. Damn. It’s a moot point now. I put my fist through the wall out of frustration. “What the fuck do I do now?” I heard myself ask, as if I was going to get a good answer. Paper towel and electrical tape: that would at least stop the bleeding over my left eye. I looked in the mirror, my left eye was swelling out of my head, the right was not far behind it, my forehead looked like someone took a hammer to it with all the bumps and lumps. Over my left temple was swelled way out already. Even after washing all the blood off and changing shirts I looked frightening. I needed to walk to the laundry room to call my night job at the pizza place. Couldn’t be waiting tables looking like this now, could I? I had no ice in the freezer to even begin icing with, all I had was beer and milk in the fridge. Sit down, have a beer, see if the shaking subsides. Have two.

I couldn’t keep my contact lens in my left eye. It had swollen up and shut so badly, so I left it out. My right eye wasn’t much better. That left me practically blind as I made my way down the walk to the laundry room to use the payphone. I called work and told them that I couldn’t come in, sorry, but I just had the living crap beaten out of me and I looked pretty bad. My manager told me to come in later, that he’ll buy me a beer and dinner. I told him that I was on the way to the hospital, ‘cause this cut was really bad. As I headed back down the sidewalk to my apartment, I heard Mark again. He was screaming at me that I had broken a bunch of his wife’s porcelain clowns when I fell, and that I got blood all over the place goddammit. The barrage of fists started again and I found myself on the sidewalk, curled up in a ball and being kicked by combat boots. I covered my head, curling up as tightly as I could. It wouldn’t stop. Now he was kicking my kidneys and my back, now my neck and head again. I heard John screaming at him, telling him to stop, that he was going to kill me. The barrage finally stopped. I was being yelled at but couldn’t make out what was being said. They left. The sidewalk was cool. The concrete was comfortable, and I didn’t want to even try to get up. I wasn’t sure what hurt and what didn’t hurt at that point, too many things were numb or throbbing. I didn’t think I could get up, everything was spinning. Finally, I was able to sit up and get up on my feet.

I warily made my way back to my apartment, found my leather and my keys and helmet. I knew that Desert Samaritan Hospital was only about five minutes ride away from me. It was right by a Chinese restaurant that I frequented down on Baseline Rd. It was a big hospital, kinda’ hard to miss. It took me 45 minutes to find it. I couldn’t figure out where Baseline was, I couldn’t figure out where anything was. I rode in circles, thinking that eventually I would find it. I did finally. Once I did, it took a great deal of effort to tell them my name, address and everything else that they asked me.  How was I supposed to fill out all this paperwork when I couldn’t even see what I was writing? All I wanted was stitches. Couldn’t they just do that? They did after a two hour wait, and it took 16 stitches to close up the gash in my head. They gave me ice packs, told me to lay face down on them. They told me that I had a concussion, and possible fractures to my skull, and that I should be kept overnight. They took x-rays and told me I had a bunch of broken ribs. I told them no; I’ll not stay the night and that I’m fine and that I’ll ride home. After a couple hours of ice and some pain killers, I left.

On the way home I stopped at another payphone and called the only number that I could recall: my girlfriend Laura back in Northbrook. I told her what happened and she freaked.

The next morning, I called in sick to A-Product, telling my boss that I got really badly beaten up and that I’d be in the next day. I still couldn’t get my left contact to stay in. My head was killing me. I felt like I’d been on the wrong end of a sledgehammer, repeatedly. The cops, that’s what I needed to do. I went to the Mesa police station and filed a report. The office at the desk took all my info down, took a bunch of pictures and sent me on my way. Later, a cop came by the apartments, looked at the trail of blood, interviewed Mark, and told me that there really wasn’t much he could do other than file the report. I could file charges, but there was really little that could be done. I figured it was a good time to call home, to call my father and let him know what was going on. He freaked.

“You’ve got 24 hours to clear the Arizona state line or I am coming to get you myself,” was his reaction.

“How am I supposed to do that on a motorcycle?” I asked.

“Leave the fucking motorcycle, I don’t care” he said.

“OK, OK, I will be out of here tomorrow morning, somehow.”

“You better be, dammit.”

Now I wasn’t leaving the bike. No way. Sure, I could catch a Greyhound to Chicago for a couple hundred dollars, but where would I leave the bike and when would I ever get back for it? I wasn’t selling the bike. I couldn’t wait until Spring, I knew there’d be no reasoning with him on that one. No, the only option here was to ride it. I called my father back at the plant:

“OK, I will leave here tomorrow morning. I will stop in Normal at Laura’s, that should be a good stopping point if I can’t get all the way home.”

“No,” he said “It’s the end of January and cold as Hell, you’ll never make it on that thing.”

“Well Dad, I’m not leaving it, I’m not selling it and if you want me home. I’m riding it.”

“You and that goddamn motorcycle… fine. Just be careful.”

“I always am, don’t worry.”

“Ha. Don’t worry. Right.”

That was January 24th.

I packed everything I owned into 2 boxes and sent them UPS to my father. I took everything I had in the kitchen and my furniture and put them in the communal space by the laundry room with a sign saying “free”. I went to my day job and collected my final paycheck. My boss was not happy to see me go. I went to the pizza place and cashed out. After that I went to the apartment complex office and turned my keys. The manager commented that I had just gotten my rent caught up and she was sad to see my leave.

It was 10am and 37°F when I left Mesa, AZ on January 25th. The weather looked good throughout the Midwest and Southern states. Temperatures were supposed to be in the low teens at worst, precipitation minimal if at any at all. A mild winter week was predicted. It was just what I needed.

I got on my leather; a couple layers of thermals and two pairs of socks. Still, with the temp in the 40’s it was chilly. I figured that as long as I stayed dry and made regular stops to warm up, I should be okay when the temperatures dropped further. I wanted to make it to the Texas state line on the first day. That was a good 10 hours of riding at 70 mph. With gas and food stops, I was sure I could do that. Albuquerque, New Mexico came up fast. I ran with the truckers who were making time. By nightfall, I was within 200 miles of Amarillo, Texas. Maintaining between 70 and 75 was working. My average speed was good. I was making progress. It was getting colder however, there was no denying that and the truckers were having a ball at my expense, making fun of me over the CB radio, talking about the “two-wheeler” and what the hell was he doing out there. Every once in a while, I’d break in and tell them that I was indeed still alive, heading to the Chicago area, and yeah, I may need my head examined.

I crossed the Texas state line. The Texas state trooper got right up behind me and followed me for a few miles. I figured he was running my plates. And then the lights came on. I coasted over to the shoulder, took off my helmet and waited for him to walk up to me. I have had run-ins with Texas State Troopers before, and they were never pleasant.

“Holy cow Boy, someone beat you with an ugly stick… are you even OK to be riding?

“Yes Sir, I’m OK. This happened a couple days ago, it looks worse than it is.

“Well, it looks pretty damn bad, let me tell you that. Now Son, you do realize that it’s January, don’t you?”

“Yes, sir I do – the 25th to be exact.”

“Where are you going on those Illinois plates? You’re a long way from home.”

“Central Illinois, Sir. Normal, to be exact.”

“Holy Christ, boy! That’s a thousand miles from here. You can’t ride that in this weather. It’s only 20 degrees now.”

“Can’t legally or can’t for some other reason?”

“Can’t because it’s downright crazy.”

“Well, I’m gonna try.”

“Shit son, then do me a favor and don’t getting killed in my district. I don’t want to have to fill out the paperwork and explain why I let you go.”

“Deal. I will wait until at least the Oklahoma state line to freeze to death. How’s that sound?”

“Get the hell out of here. And be careful.”

I pulled my helmet back on, fired up the bike, and left him standing there on the side of I-40, shaking his head in disbelief. Whoopie lights were still flashing in the night, red and blue, red and blue.

By 10pm, I made Amarillo, which by most standards wouldn’t be anything to brag about as Amarillo basically consists of truck stops, bad restaurants and light industry. However, the thought of sitting on something that wasn’t moving and eating something warm sounded heavenly. I pulled into the first truck stop that I saw. It was a “Blue and White,” and like all Blue and Whites, I can bet that they have good hamburgers and hot coffee.

Truck stops are a unique American place. They are split into two parts; the store where everything from hubcaps to aspirin is for sale and the diner area. In between the two is the fuel desk where the truckers or the public pay for their fuel. To the back of the store are the showers and areas where the truckers can freshen up. The public rarely sees much more than the fuel desk of a truck stop. I was most interested in the diner. True to its name, this one was decorated in blue and white tile. There was a counter and lots of tables and booths along one wall. I made a beeline for one of the booths. Every eye in the place was on me. I was the freak show for the night. As I passed by one table, a big burley-looking trucker said to me, “You’re that two-wheeler that’s out there aren’t you?”.

“Yes sir, I am.”

“You’re one crazy son-of-a-bitch, I’ll give you that.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Once seated, a waitress was in front of me with coffee in less than a minute. She didn’t even need to ask.

“Where you headed?” she asked in a lovely Texas drawl.

“Normal, Illinois,” I told her

“Well, then you better get eating. You’ve got a long way to go.”

The double cheeseburger never tasted so good before. When I was finished, I stopped in the store to buy another bottle of aspirin to stave off the pounding in my head. There was a motel right next to the truck stop. For $29.99, I could get a warm bed to sleep in and a hot shower. I took it.   

Sunday, January 26th met me with sunshine and temperature gauge at the truck stop said 7°F. I stopped in the diner and had breakfast, filled up the tank and hit I-40 again for Day Two. I had to make Springfield, Missouri to keep on my three-day schedule. That was about 550 miles of open road and the newspaper said that the temperatures were going to be dropping. To make the 550 miles in a reasonable time, I’d have to average about 70 mph. That includes stops, warming up, fueling, everything. 60 mph is one mile per minute, or 88 feet per second, or a football field about every three seconds. Space and time: I had to win the battle of space and time versus the cold.

The first hour out of Amarillo was brutal. I couldn’t get warm. I was shaking violently, my teeth were chattering, the whole gamut. My toes were numb and my hands looked like they were at the end of someone else’s arms. 88 feet per second, 5280 feet per minute, keep it over 70 mph no matter what. My first gas stop for the day didn’t have a coffee shop. There was nowhere to warm up or even go inside. 125 miles down, 400 to go. Tulsa was in about another 100 miles. I knew I could find a truck stop outside Tulsa to warm up at. As I passed the truckers, they all flashed their lights at me and honked their horns. I could hear them chattering on the radio about me, a novelty on their highway. Some were more cynical than others.

“Hey, look at that there two-wheeler down there. I bet he’s just froze to death. Next curve, he’ll go right off the road,” said one trucker.

“Sorry, good buddy – I’m not dead yet, not even close.”

“Well goddamn two-wheeler, you’re one crazy bastard to be out here now. I hope she’s good-looking, whoever you’re going home to.”

“Don’t worry, she is. And I’ll see her tomorrow night.”

“And where’s you headed two-wheeler?”

“Normal, Illinois 18-wheeler.”

“Well goddamn, she better be good looking at that.”

“That’s a big 10-4 there 18-wheeler.”

I stopped at the truck stop in Tulsa for fuel, diner food and coffee. It was the first time I had to run my hands under the hot water in the restroom to get feeling back in them. It took almost 10 minutes before I could feel the heat, and then they screamed like there were thousands of needles being stuck in them. My feet were another story. I hadn’t felt them in hours, yet I didn’t think it would be too cool to pull off my boots in the diner and thaw myself out. Fueled up, reasonably thawed out and somewhat re-energized I got on I-44 north of Tulsa and headed northeast. This was where my route was starting to head further north, and that meant colder.

I didn’t plan on the blizzard outside of Tulsa. One minute the sky was clear and bright and the next minute, there were snowflakes as big as saucers flying at me from everywhere. They weren’t sticking to the road yet. They were melting into slush. There was nowhere to go – nowhere to hide from this. They coated the windshield and made it hard to see. They dissolved as they hit me and soon, I was feeling the cold damp come through my leather and my jeans. There was nowhere to pull off and even try to put on my rain suit, as if that was going to help now. Even slowing down felt dangerous, like the bike was going to come out from under me.  The snow began to accumulate in the center of the road between the tire tracks. There was a UPS freight truck ahead of me a way, and I caught up to him, tucking in just behind his back driver’s side tires, in his wake.

“Breaker 1-9 to the UPS truck, you read me?” I spoke into my radio.

“Loud and clear. That you, two-wheeler?”

“Yes sir, it is. You mind if I run in your draft here for a little while? This snow is making my life hell.”

“No problem, two-wheeler. Where abouts you headed?”

“Normal, Illinois.”

“You realize it’s a lot colder up ahead a few hundred miles, right?”

“I’m finding that out about every mile. Honestly, it’s cold enough for me now.”

“You got some brass balls there, two-wheeler, I’ll give you that. Good luck to you.”

I followed in his wake for almost 100 miles, until I had to stop for fuel.

“Hey UPS truck, I gotta stop for fuel, thanks for the draft.” I told him

“I’ll stop with you two-wheeler, I’d kinda like to meet you.” He said

We stopped at the next truck stop and I went to the auto fuel side. The UPS truck went over to the truck parking side. As I was finishing up fueling the bike and washing the windshield I heard a voice behind me “Hey two-wheeler!” and I turned around to see a big burly bearded man in blue jeans, a plaid flannel and pointy cowboy boots. “Hey UPS guy!” I said as he neared.

He strode up to me with his hand out, “Bill Dennis” He said. “Scott Livingston” I said, shaking his hand. “You get beat with an ugly stick buddy?” he said “Well, something like that I said remembering that I still had two black eyes and a lot of bruising. We chatted for about 15 minutes, me giving him a brief synopsis as to why I was riding from Pheonix to Normal in January. “That’s some tale.”” He said, “I sure hope you make it ok.” He said

We parted ways and I rode in his draft for another 100 or so miles until I had to get off the road again. I heard him telling the other truckers that he had indeed met me and I was real and really did have brass balls.

Outside of Springfield, MO the snow stopped and a feeble sun came out. Not a lot of good it did me.  I was soaked. Another 150 miles to St. Louis and then another 150 miles to Normal: this was beginning to seem almost in sight of doable. Six hours, that was all I had to do to finish the journey – just six hours. The truck stop coffee in Springfield warmed me and made me nauseous at the same time, and I was sure that there was plenty more to come after that. I spent 20 minutes in the bathroom throwing up what was in my stomach. I got back on the road, 300 more miles… 6 hours. The temperature was dropping. The mirrors were icing over. It had to be approaching zero for that to be happening. Once the sun went down, it just kept getting colder. The first truck stop at the Springfield exit was the one for me. It was damn hard to get my legs down to stop, and it took great effort to make my fingers turn the key to shut off the bike. I couldn’t feel my feet.

I spent the second night just north of Springfield, MO. I took a $19.99 room in the motel that was behind the truck stop. It looked scary from the outside; it was worse on the inside. Only one of the lights in the room worked. The toilet didn’t look like it had been cleaned since the 70’s and the shower was black from about half-way down. I could only imagine when the sheets were washed last. I parked the bike just outside the window, then I ran a string from the bike’s left mirror into the room through the window. I tied that end to my wrist. I slept in my thermals on top of the sheets, my leather over the heater to dry. At about 2:30 in the morning there was a knock at the door. I got up to answer it, with the chain hooked. Standing there is a woman that I’d never seen before, with a short coat and shorter skirt on and obscenely high red heels and big hair. “Who the Hell are you?” I ask her. “I’m room service, Honey.” Now I know I just stood there and looked at her blankly for what seemed to be an hour, though it really only took me a few seconds to figure out what was going on. I told her to go away. I went back to bed.

There are few things as unpleasant as waking up from a really poor night’s sleep when you already felt like you been beat. That’s how it was on the morning of the 27th. I rode the bike around to the truck stop and headed into the diner for breakfast. The truck stop thermometer said -5°F. This was gonna’ be challenging. I sat down at a table and waited. Almost immediately, a waitress appeared with coffee and a menu.

“Steak and eggs, please.”

“Sure, thing Darlin’. You’re that biker that the truckers are talking about, aren’t you?”

“Well, I seem to be the only one on the road these days.”

“They’re taking bets that they find you in a ditch somewhere, they don’t think you can make it to the Illinois State line.”

“Oh? They don’t do they? Well, I assure you that the smart money is on my doing so. As a matter of fact,”

I pulled out my wallet from my back pocket and took out a $5 bill.

“Here, you can bet this on my making it through St. Louis by lunchtime. Call it an extra tip.”

“You got guts… I better get you your breakfast.”

I knew this last leg was going to be the worst. 384 miles left, and it was well below zero. Everything I had on was damp and there was no way to resolve that. At the truck stop, I stopped and bought a newspaper. Splitting it into sections, I lined the inside of my jacket with it, then I put my rain suit on to cut the wind. I filled up the tank and hit I-44, taking it up to about 80 and holding it there.

The shakes started almost immediately. My knees were knocking against the tank, feet shaking against the pegs, shoulders convulsing. I had to hold the handlebars loosely to keep from putting the bike into a wobble. “This will pass,” I kept telling myself. “This is the body getting warm.”  All I had to do was make it to the next gas station, then the one after that, then four more tanks and I was there. “I can do this,” I said out loud.

I made it 80 miles to the next gas station. It had a McDonald’s that was a beacon of warmth for me. I had a feeling that I was going to be seeing a lot of McDonald’s today since they’re at about every Illinois exit. “Put your legs down, Scott. Make sure they work before the exit,” I said to myself. Even thinking was becoming difficult. 300 miles to go.

I sat in the McDonald’s for about 30 minutes, not wanting to waste any more daylight than necessary. I filled up the tank and got back on I-44 Eastbound, taking it back up to 80 mph, cruising speed. I was shy of just four more hours of riding. The shakes began again. I couldn’t stop the shaking. My body convulsed and there was nothing I could do to stop it. I had to ride no handed because if I held the grips my shaking would send the bike wobbling. “You’re just along for the ride Scott, hang on.” All I could do was count the miles down: 278, 277, 276. I said to myself again, “I can do this.” I said out loud, screaming to myself inside my helmet.

It was about 10:30AM and I was about 15 miles outside of St. Louis at a truck stop. It was hell getting off the bike. I couldn’t feel the key to turn it off.  I looked like a drunk stumbling from the parking spot since I couldn’t tell where my feet hit the ground. I wasn’t sure whose boots those were at the end of my legs. I could only imagine what I looked like to all the people staring at me through the windows or the restaurant as I made my way inside and to a table to sit down.

“Honey, you don’t look so good, here’s some coffee for you,” said the waitress.

“Thanks. I’ll be eating – just give me a few, okay?”

“No hurry. Take your time.”

I realized I had forgotten to take my jacket off. Damn. That meant I had to stand up again.

After four cups of coffee, some eggs, bacon, and toast, I was finally getting some feeling back in my lower body. About four gallons of fuel later, I was back on the road. I-44 eastbound through St. Louis, then I-55 northbound for the final push.

The cashier at the fuel desk told me which route to take to avoid the bad areas of St. Louis, stressing to me that no one alone on a motorcycle needed to be anywhere near most of East St. Louis. Heading North on 55, once over the Illinois state line, I was met by the welcome party. The whoopie lights came on behind me. Fortunately, I could still move my legs enough to stop the bike and hold it up. I sat there with the lights flashing, not at all curious as to why I was being pulled over. The State Trooper emerged from his car at the same time I took off my helmet.

“Holy Hell Son, should I ask what the other guy looks like?”

“I’d rather you didn’t Sir, to be honest.”

“Son, you do realize it’s January?” he asked.

“Well, yes sir. I have been told that a few times just recently.”

“And you realize it’s 15 below zero out here?”

“It’s cold as Hell Sir, I do know that.”

 “Do you know why I pulled you over?”

“Not a clue Sir, not a clue.”

“Well, I been hearing about you on the radio, seems you are quite the topic of conversation amongst the truckers out there.”

“So, you had to pull me over to see if I was still alive?”

“Well, I had to see it for myself. You made it across the Illinois line.”

“And how many people lost the bets that I wouldn’t make it?” I asked

“Well, I heard that quite a few were disappointed by your success.” He said.

“And now I have about 150 miles to go to Normal.”

“Yes indeed. You think you can make it?”

“Yes Sir, I do. And if you’ll let me get on my way I will do so even faster. Can I go?”

“Hell yeah, go, just don’t die in my district ‘cause I don’t want to do the paperwork. Now git”

“Thank you, sir.”

I put my helmet back on, fired up the bike and took off.

I went through Springfield, Illinois at about 3pm. It was cold as hell. I was stopping about every half hour, trying to find a place that was open so I could sit down and warm up. Anything would do. At one diner I asked the waitress if she would get me some tin foil from the kitchen. She looked at me funny and brought me two large pieces. I proceeded to wrap my boots in the tin foil to cut the wind.  Further North, the problem was that there wasn’t much at the exits north of Springfield. No truck stops, no McDonald’s, not even any gas stations. It was dark and I was in no-man’s land. All there was to see was flattened out corn fields covered in snow in each direction. There was nothing to see, nowhere to stop, no refuge. It was getting hard to think. The shakes had stopped, I was grateful for that, at least. “Maintain 80 miles an hour,” I kept telling myself out loud. “60 miles an hour is a mile a minute, 5,280 feet in a minute, 88 feet in a second.” I did the math over and over again in my head to keep on track. My legs were gone; I couldn’t even move them. My hands were hanging onto the bars of their own free will, with the throttle locked open. I could feel my chest, my heart beating in there like a drum trying to get out. This was panic, I realized. Sheer panic was setting in. I was starting to wonder if I was going to make it.

An exit; the sign says there is a restaurant. LeRoy Illinois, I couldn’t not take the exit. Everything hurt too much. My hands were blocks of ice, my feet were gone, there was ice on my jeans and pant legs. I pulled off the highway and right there off of old Route 66 there was a diner. The Sunrise Restaurant. The parking lot was full of pickup trucks laden with construction or other trade equipment. I backed the bike into a spot just outside the door, peeled myself off the bike and slowly made my way in the front door. The door hadn’t even shut behind me when I realized that the place had gone silent, and every eye was on me. There was an open table towards the center of the restaurant, I peeled off my jacket, hung it on the back of a chair and sat down.

Nothing. No chatter, no conversation, nothing. No waitress. I could see two of them, they were moving about busily, not looking my way.

I got up to go to the bathroom, maybe warm my hands up a bit, ran my hands under warm water for five minutes or so. Use the air dryer to warm them some more. As I head back to my table, I notice that my leather is on the floor behind the chair that I’d hung it on. That jacket weighs more than 10 pounds wet, I know it didn’t just jump off that chair back.

Silence.

There’s a counter in back, a waitress behind the counter. I walk back and stand there at the counter by one of the stools. “Can I get a cup of coffee please?”

Nothing. She won’t even look at me.

“Take a hint Boy, you’re not welcome here.” Comes a male drawl from behind me.

I turn around, not sure who said it. I’m sure that based on how I look I don’t look ready to take on a whole room of hicks. I know I don’t feel it. I slowly make my way back to my table, and sit down. I’m in no shape to go back out there and get on the bike. I need to sit here for a few minutes and try to warm up. I figure if I just sit here for a bit, they’ll lose interest in me and leave me be. The chatter in the diner starts back up, and I relax a bit. I look at my watch, I’ll give it 10 minutes then I’ll leave. I never do get a cup of coffee or see a waitress. My 10 minutes is up and I put my leather back on, and ease out the door to the parking lot. This is why I learned long ago that you always park the bike facing outwards from somewhere you’re unfamiliar with. It makes leaving far simpler. I toot the horn twice as I gun the engine to leave, spewing gravel behind me onto the building. I-55 sounds welcoming at this point; I don’t care how cold it is. Less than an hour to go.

30 miles left according to my odometer – less than 30 minutes. “I can do this.”

20 miles to go – less than 18 minutes. “I can do this.”

15 miles to go – less than 12 minutes. “I can do this.”

The exit for 51 north, Bloomington, less than five miles. “I can do this.”         

Main Street, College Ave., University Ave., 1540 was the building. There was a parking spot right in front of the building entrance. Legs, come on, go down, please. Shut off the bike. Pull out the key. Get off the bike. You can do this, dammit. Up the 5 stairs, apartment 213, up the flight of stairs, find the apartment, knock on the door, it opens. I see a woman that I don’t recognize, she says something to me, I can’t make it out, I realize that the floor is coming up at me.

I woke up sometime later that night feeling like I’m floating. I can hear water running. I can feel everything aching. My hands and feet are back and tingling madly. My head throbs like I’ve been hit with a sledgehammer, repeatedly, my back aches, my kidneys ache, but I could feel it all. Things felt pretty, well, was this a good thing? I open my eyes slowly and meet the gaze of a woman whom I’ve never seen before in my life. She smiles and says, “Well, look who’s awake finally!”. I look around some more and see two other women I don’t know and one that I do, my girlfriend Laura. I’m lying in a bathtub, and they are drinking martinis, there are no bubbles. The water was running warm down my feet, and I can feel my toes. My hands and arms were submerged and I felt wonderful.

“I’m Annie, that’s Tracy and that’s Bambi, and yes, it took all four of us to get you undressed and in here. We’ve just been waiting all afternoon for you to come around,” the woman said as she toasted me with her martini glass. The other three raised their glasses in a salute.

“And these are for you,” say’s Laura; pointing to a case of longneck Budweiser’s sitting on the floor next to me.

“Shit, I did it.” I said.

I reached for a bottle, cracked off the cap, and toast them right back.