This day would be a low mileage day of a bit over 300 miles. Unfortunately it would be almost entirely on the I40 slab. It would be the last short day for a spell. They had the remainder of the US’s vast southwestern Big Empty to negotiate. They had a course plotted in the general direction of Louisiana’s Big Easy for the two succeeding days.

They hastened across the high plains desert, stopping only for fuel. At one such way station they met up with another Harley-riding pilgrim in Winslow. Early 60s in age, short in stature, with a long grey hair ponytail and pointy tobacco stained beard, he rode a custom painted and tricked out early-80s vintage Low Rider of his own design.

Based on how he rode purposely up to them, he seemed of a mind to tell them his story. They loosened their helmet straps, sat back on their saddles and listened to his tale.

He’d been a scooter trash resident in the Sedona area back in the late 60s and 70s. Neither he nor his bike showed any signs of him being a current one percenter patch wearer. But based on his faded tats, he likely was biker gang member who was no longer affiliated.

He had left Arizona in the early 80s to find fame and fortune in Missouri. After countless false starts and stops, he had become a successful indie shop motorcycle mechanic. He was headed back west to a long lost friend’s wedding in the town of Yarnell. This burgh was well south of Sedona in the previous day’s dead zone.

He hadn’t been back out this way “since the 80s when its weirdness level started rising” into the stratosphere. They silently remarked that perhaps the statute of limitations for some past misdeed had finally run out.

At length he got around to why he was jawing with them. He thought these fellow bearded wanderers could help him remember what set of back roads might take him to Sedona area directly from the east. He was adamant about not riding the slab.

He was an old school biker with a history in the area. He knew these byways existed — he just couldn’t remember them. A quick map check allowed them to point him to AZ 87 southwest out of Winslow and then onto AZ 260 west to Cottonwood and onto AZ 89. With each road number’s mention, you could see a flicker of recognition glimmer in his sunglassed eyes. On his breath was the faint herbal smell from the previous night’s bong hits. Mightily

thanking them, this half-baked, biker brother kick-started his beast and departed the station’s gravel lot in a cloud of desert dust.

After a quick stop at the Albuquerque Harley dealer to fix a soft rear brake on Augustus’s bike, they headed straight to Steve’s sister Barbie’s place. From the presence of a Valkyrie in the driveway they could tell that Steve was already here. Given his extra 150 mile handicap and their fairly fast pace that day, Steve had used a heretofore undisclosed cloaking device to hide his 85+ MPH rocket from the speed trap measurement devices along the way on I40.

These four 2-wheeled travelers took it easy while Barbie prepared a home cooked Italian meal. Leo, Barbie’s husband, prefaced the repast with some mighty tasty, dry martinis.

Once again they became a trio the next morning when Rex commenced a solo 700 plus mile journey at 5:05 AM back home.

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