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Under the ten thousand watts of the noontime Nevada sun, I can no longer stand the hardened foam and the 55.2 degree angle of the footpegs. The throttle snaps closed and the chain pulls the motorcycle down from speed and we angle off the freeway, throbbing silence rising, crowding the helmet and throbbing heat sinking into collar and sleeves. The Mobil sign shimmers in the heat, the pump roof projects a massive rectangular black hole in the desert. I roll into the black hole next a pump and sigh inside.

I stand up (both knees crack), I take off my helmet and peel off my gloves, and take a deep breath of hot dust. “t's friggin' hot.”