Flying down Highway 89A in Arizona on Tiger, my motorcycle, is like dancing. Like snowboarding in powder. Like surfing on perfect waves (I think). The curves are perfectly situated, paved and slanted. The rocks, trees, clean air and views are stunning. With no cars in front of you, the road feels like the sort of playground my nephews would design if they had complete freedom and power.
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Earlier today I had a run-in with officer Chesney, an Arizona state trooper. I had been flying on Tiger from New Mexico into Arizona. Highway I40 is straight and long, boring and surrounded by flat desert. Trucks barrel down and shift lanes without looking. The best strategy is: go fast. Create space. Get ahead of them and find the open road. Clearly, Officer Chesney was not amused, though when I had apologized profusely we had a nice chat about my Triumph. The fine will be determined by the court, and it will not be small.
Lesson learned. Yes, Officer.
It was miserable. But shortly thereafter the Rockies appeared like a dark, jagged line on the hazy horizon. The road was rising to 6000 feet again. The air was cooling. Huge and dark, the mountains around Flagstaff appeared, and I knew highway 89A was close.