On Fire

A passing zone was right over the next knoll. I know where all of them are within a twenty mile radius of my house. Two clicks down to third gear, and I wound out the throttle. Two clicks back up to fifth gear during my short stint of acceleration brought my little Harley Sportster to a quick and cool eighty beans. I went flying by the bumper sticker riddled shitbox in a roar of American pride, because nobody does forty in a forty. At least, nobody should. Cooling back town to a swift sixty, I noticed the beater come huffing and puffing its way up behind me. Thinking it was just another offended driver, I paid no mind.

Well, eventually the sputtering shitbox got right up my tailpipe, which never happens. Usually, they get mad and tail me for a short minute before dropping back to their Sunday driver pace. However, on these rare occasions, I simply send more gas into the cylinders and watch my assailant grow infinitely smaller in the mirrors. This time was no different. Except the car didn't fade away.

The needle on the speedo read one hundred and twenty and this son a a bitch was right behind me. Hell, I couldn't go any faster without a sixth gear, so I started yelling from behind my helmet. And I know he could hear every word over my rambunctious engine.

“What the hell! You were doing forty!” I glanced back, feeling the wind catch the side of my head like a sail. “How does that death trap even go this fast!? I'm surprised you're not dead by now!” Driven by some divine force, my left hand came off the handle bars and its middle finger shot skyward.

That would teach him.

It didn't. Dear old asshat kept right on coming.

I'd lose him in some nifty corners. I slowed from my hell bent rampage so I could turn onto Old Greenfield road. I'd been up and down that road more times than I care to remember, and knew I could snake my way through corners in which he'd end up kissing the bark of an Oak tree.

Fourth gear and seventy miles an hour through windy back roads is more fun than playing with gasoline and matches. And every bit as dangerous. As soon as you exit a right hand bend, there's a dirty left that wants you to lean into it, hard. A short downhill is followed by Church's corner, which I may have gone off of one snowy evening. That ninety degree turn is killer. Good thing I can cut it at fifty and keep on my merry way.

He couldn't. I turned around to check on good old shitbox and watched it skid off the road. It slid sideways in the shrubbery for a moment before the tires hit a stone wall. The laws of physics then took over, flipping the beater over the wall, having it come to rest on its unholy roof. I slowed, pulling a tight U-turn in the middle of the road to head back to the accident. Pulling up to the scene, I killed my engine. Swinging my leg over the bike, I dismounted and walked over to the car. I didn't see much. Bending down, I looked in through shattered glass.

They were alive. Unconscious, but alive. Shit shit shit dammit to hell, they were also Feds. I hadn't known they were looking for me. And I fucking passed them on a motorcycle. I reached down and took a cellphone from the overturned car and dialed 911.

“911, what's your emergency?”

“I just came across an accident on Old Greenfield Road just off of 136. Send help.”

“Police and ambulance units will be on their way. Can I have your name, sir?”

“Uh. Hank Hill.”

“Hey, that's a char...” I threw the phone back in the car and jumped back on my bike. I had to disappear. With haste, I rode off. I saw police cruisers and an ambulance headed back towards the crash. No worries now. They'd be okay, and I'd be gone again.