Somethings are always cool. Fat fendered hot rods don't have to look good to be super cool and I found one real cheap. The problem is I work 80 hours a week and the rust bucket wouldn't last long at 350 bucks. I hoped on the fizzer, my '97 FZR 600 motorcycle to get to work that Sunday morning and ended my trip sliding on my ass, 10 feet from the door. The damage was minimal thanks to the first and only time this summer I wore my leathers and boots. The impact broke off some bits, tore the stitches on my kevlar gloves and my right fore arm looks like popye's. I repaired the bike with tape and a tug on the bars to straighten them. I tweaked and tuned the bike after work and replaced the 7o dollar iridium screen on my helmet where I kissed the cement earlier, then motored down the line on my map quest sheet taking the lines that were not bold to see more scenery. Fat straight lines on a map mean transportation of the vehicle and I was looking for something a little more interesting staying on the small two lane roads at about 2 miles a minute my view became obscured with small bugs and things. I remember one particular bug of above average side meeting me nose high at ninty. Like a slow motion bullet from a Tarintino B flick I saw it arrive at its final destination pinging the helmet with quite a ring. The small prison town of Florence is beautiful and the stark contrast of federal money and what the 10 dollar an hour jobs it provides buys makes for city size buildings with a town like flair. Watching the western sky turn pink while riding the stripe next to the mountain was the highlight. From the moment I hit Tucson my experience was sureal, I drove down all the wrong streets lost and looking for some old highway. I trucked down hooker row and finally found a cop, 9 actually, parked on a park hassling some transients. For such a smallish city, Tucson seems high in crime content. I found my way to the cracked highway that dipped and swayed so bad I had to stand in the saddle to save the kids I want to have. Two turns from no where was the address I seeked, three trailers formed a U facing the steet. I arrived to find the the owner of the '51 Plymouth kissing a hornytoad for a camera and his grandkids. Taz seems like a very nice fellow and proved it in the ride in his air conditioned Cadillac by sharing a candid story about the time he picked up a hot tranny on accident. The digital speedo seemed stuck at 47 mph as we cut a straight line down the desert to find the secret location. Several harsh roads later we pulled into a small yard at the end of a trail to find a double wide with the front door open and a man peering out at his company. Darkness surrounded everything and the interior light from the car and living room created two exact locations in a lightless expanse. Taz said not to mind the giant on the porch he was harmless, but his size escaped me until I shook his hand. My hand disappeared in his as I quickly remembered my swollen forearm, keeping my smile with an uncontrolled wrinkle in it. There next to a large cactus and a flamed peterbuilt semi was the car I came for. As I inspected the find to see what work I was in for, Taz caught up with his giant by exchanging stories of equal impossibility. The car doesn't have a floor, has rusted through in many spots, one fender is badly damaged and probably not salvageable. I count the money into his hand as we set up the details of the delivery. In the distance a small mormonish family is singing church hymns in the desert, the pitch waving is seems they are walking at the same time. After business is complete and proper documentation signed the ride back to my motorcycle is swift. I shake hands with Taz and spin the motorcycle around on the stand to make a hasty exit into the distant lights dotting a line down the highway. I ride like a pony express rider high on the pegs down the country road at speed to hit the highway directly. I shoot through traffic setting the rubber band on the grip to dial in enough throttle for ninty. The orange glow of Tucson sits well behind me its scattered fractal light reflected of my shattered rearview mirrow like an inverted disco ball, the thought of fuel suddenly weighs on my mind. At these speeds I can't get more than 140 miles a tank and I'm sitting at 260, because I forgot to hit the trip last fill up. I miss the turn for gas so I pull in with the diesel trucks, flick the kill switch and do a rolling dismount to walk the bike across the sidewalk to the store and gas pumps. As I thumb the start the single occupant in the parked patrol car and I meet eyes across the slick parking lot. I pull to the pump without any extra trouble when my phone hums it's greeting. I have a confirmed hot date that is miffed about the 3 and a half hour wait, so I'm 68 miles out and 23 minutes later we ride together to the house to turn on the red light. I am still recovering from my wounds that day and that night. I haven't learned my lesson, I have another appointment to see a car for it's chassis, this could be the foundation of my next hot rod classic. I have a lot to learn, but I have all night, because it's not the only appointment I plan to keep tonight. -Evan

I think that an absence of thought is the closest thing to a vacation anyone can truely afford. Flying away from personal problems just introduces new problems in a new arena. I by most accounts don't like to take personal vacations from reality as I'm addicted to controling as much of myself as possible. That being said I'm am writing this from outside my mind and I must say that without prior knowledge things are much clearer than they should be. Dwelling on anything too long could just possibly introduce enough thought to remove common sense. I've decided on seclusion. Not giving this decision much thought, just a choice. I think I need to get to know the animal inside for a while before I meet with the beasts beyond. Please don't respond. -Evan