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I always thought that if I were to go down, I would make sure that all my body parts worked before I got up. Check out myself methodically, like a computer starting with my toes and moving up one side at a time. No point in going fast, might break something that wasn’t broken before.

Instead, I immediately stand up.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck,” I keep repeating to myself. All I know is that my bike is somewhere in the middle of the road. Jon, Rob, my dad and Jenny are nowhere to be found.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck, is the driver ok?” I wonder.

I take off my gloves and walk closer to the van, now the adrenaline is pumping through me. I feel like I can push over that stupid van for being there, but what I really want to do is tear my helmet off and throw it into the forest.

I walk towards the van and a line of bicyclists in bright yellow ride by me.

The left turn signal now touching the tank.

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Before we left, days ago.

Riding at night is something I planned to avoid on this trip. By the time night fully sets in I was hoping to be checked into a hotel. Lake Michigan makes things cold, and Upper Michigan makes things even colder, but night also means easily missed signs and completely missed road hazards. Cars tend to hit motorcyclists more at night too.

Then there’s the wildlife. I’m afraid of a meat wall wandering out into the middle of the road waiting for me to crash into it. The brakes on the CB77 would never stop me in time, but I don’t have to worry about that because I might not even see it coming with a dim headlight. Maneuvering on the CB77 which is two screw turns away from broken is not an option either.

But even if the brakes could stop me I worry about the people following me. Would the exhausted and cold riders be able to react in time to stop?

Of course, I pick the wrong wildlife to be afraid of. It’s not the deer that is the problem.

It’s the bugs.

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Broken bike and broken adventure.

So much for the CB360T. I hop off the bike and the rest of the crew rides up. Rob explains to them the situation, but I’m so mad I don’t even take off my helmet, pouting like a MotoGP rider who just crashed out of the race. I shouldn’t have been pinning the throttle, especially at this critical point in the game. While they’re looking at the bike I take out the map.

We are literally at the apex of our trip, the next town is still twenty miles ahead and the last one was twenty miles ago. Even if these rural towns do have a bike mechanic, he’s not going to be open Saturday night, or Sunday, or Monday on Labor Day weekend.

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