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A partly chewed up cable, the other one snapped and lost Robs bag.

With our bike now gone as well as Rob’s bag, Jon and Rob playing frogger in traffic, and my hotel reservations screwed up, my backup plan is go home. I start to imagine how I’m going to spend the rest of my weekend down a couple hundred dollars when a loud as balls bike screams over the bridge. It’s Jon and Rob on the CB360T, barley hanging on. You can tell a lot by the way someone is riding on the bike, Rob looks like he’s about to fall of the back and Jon looks like he’s willing the bike to go as fast as possible.

They skid to a stop, they’re super shaken up. Jon started it and Rob immediately hopped on. Not sure why it started but it did. Seconds later our bright yellow tow truck shows up. Rob and Jon talk to the tow truck guy about putting the bike back on the back and getting it home as my dad begins to look at the bike.

“The choke was on.” My dad says. And he hops and kick starts the bike. It fires right up. Nobody believes him. The choke is on the other side of the bike from where you kick start it, and it’s pretty recessed into the engine. It’d be hard to accidentally turn it on, but we’re willing to let him test it out.

The tow truck guy actually doesn’t seem to mind he even says he’ll block for us as we ride to the next exit. By now it’s dark outside. We fire up the bikes, but before we leave, Jon and Rob ask the guy if he saw a backpack on the way.

“Yea, I got it right here. I knew it was you guys.” and he hands it over. I’m so psyched that I hang the bag over my arm as we pull out into traffic and blast from 0 to 100 to the next exit. We stop at a fire station and the bike IS working fine, we found the backpack and I was lucky my hotel room didn’t get cancelled.

It was dark, but we were going to make Green Bay.

It’s getting cold outside but in order to feel good about ourselves we decide to wait to stop right across the Wisconsin border and before we get dinner. It’s about 10pm now, and the TA stop is offering all-you-can-eat on everything. Perhaps it’s a sign of the times. The truck stop itself has a buffet that looks two days too old and a magazine is propping up our table. But we load up on coffee, crappy food, and get going again. Things are looking like a proper road trip now.

A proper road time in this sense actually means about 80 miles at a time. The CB360T is the limiting factor because it has a puny gas tank and because it’s old, it gets relatively poor gas mileage at 40 MPG. That’s 40 MPG actual, not the EPA made up number you see in advertisements.

The only reason you know this is because when you’re riding, the bike will lose power and start to shudder. You have a couple of seconds before you slow to a stop to reach down and switch over to reserve tank. There’s no gas meter even in some bikes today, so this is how you know. The reserve tank will take you about 20 miles further before you’re really screwed, but for some reason our reserve isn’t working that well. I generally like to go 100-120 miles before stopping, but since our pace is slower I enjoy every break.

We break about 30 miles up the road, with me leading. I pull into the gas station, it’s busy even at midnight. Jon pulls off his helmet, and I pull out my camera to capture our progress. Right before I flick it on, Jon says he lost a bag.

I’m in a state of shock. We lost two bags in one night, and this time it is seriously cold outside. Jon is apathetic about going back, but Dad and Rob are so hopped up on our good luck that they insist on it. But it’s dangerous. Unlike a car, you can’t have any one fall asleep and you can’t switch drivers. We’ll never make it to Green Bay, and nothing is worse than fatigue and cold. I curse the cute Wisconsin receptionist as I gear up.

We’ve got a plan this time. Two bikes on the left lane, two on the right. Wide following distance.

“Meet at whatever stop is after mile marker 325. Like 324 or 323. The next one.”

After I take off I realize I don’t even know what the bag looks like, and my helmet is fogging up bad thanks to some modifications I made to make it warmer. My helmet is so bad I have to tilt my head up and look down my nose, while in traffic, running at 55 in the fast lane at night looking at the side of the road.

It’s also foggy outside now and there are numerous bits of blown out tire on the road from trucks. Each one looks like a small black bag to me, but I don’t see anything worth stopping.

I pull over at mile marker 325 about half an hour later and am the first one there. Then I look back and see Rob on the loud 360T zoom by. Shit, I think to myself.

I send rob a text, “I’m at 235” and wait for the others. Nobody comes, and I don’t see any bikes pass. Maybe I missed them? Maybe they found it.

I wait longer, I lose track of time.

Then I decide to go to the next stop, maybe 325 didn’t count and Rob is waiting there for me. Except when I get there, there’s nobody. I go to the next stop. Nobody. I go back to 325 and wait and call Rob, nothing. I call Jon, nothing. And I wait some more. Eventually Jon calls.

“We’re at the original gas station.”

I think I remember where it is and I zoom towards it one stop down. As I’m waiting for a light I see a pair of bikes, that’s them, at a different gas station. I pull in, and everyone is there except Rob.

“Rob’s lost,” says Jon.

“Where is he? By the freeway?”

“He doesn’t know, Rob’s lost.”

Dark and cold. Everyone feeling lost.