In the sixteen years I have known him, it is the only time I've seen him angry. Usually he is unflappable. Usually he is a picture of calm and balance. But that morning he completely lost it. He was so angry, as a matter of fact, that his eyes flashed blue sparks which extended outward past the edge of his ample aura, out into the atmosphere, charging the roadside with emotion.

We had decided to go to the river. It was mid-August and the heat was stifling in the city. We could picture ourselves lounging on the banks of the Blanco, jumping in for a dip if we broke a sweat, cranking up a campfire by night and exploring the hills by day. It was too great a temptation to resist. So we packed the motorcycles and prepared to hit the road early one Friday morning.

"Let's avoid I-10 if we can", I shouted over the roar of the idling Harleys. He nodded in agreement and pulled a Texas roadmap from his saddlebag. "Looks like we can take Highway 90 from Rosenberg to Gonzales," he said, "and then turn north on 183 to Luling and go on up through San Marcos that way. Whaddaya think?" It sounded good to me. I signaled thumbs-up, he stashed the map, and we rolled out of the driveway just as the sun broke full over the horizon.

Traffic was horrible on I-45 and the loop, as we had expected, but we pressed on secure in the knowledge that country roads and wide open spaces awaited us. We breakfasted at a little cafe in Rosenberg and then cruised out Alt 90 with big smiles on our faces. This was it. Country air! Sunshine! The noise and the bustle of industrial metroplexes would soon be a fading memory.

The road had other surpises in store for us, however. About five miles out of Rosenberg we noticed that we were indeed alone out there in the country except for about 5,000 dump trucks. At least, it seemed like about 5,000 of 'em. If you've ever ridden behind a dump truck, you know what a pleasure it can be. Thwack! Ping! Thwack! Rocks and debris rolling off the back of those dump trucks bounce off the road and then crash into the foolish biker who dares travel too close behind. We'd pass the offending truck only to find that we were following another.

Pretty soon dump trucks started meeting us on the road, too, coming from the direction of Eagle Lake. Those babies were going both ways that day for some reason, some big job somewhere up ahead, some major dump truck get-together that only the dump trucks knew about. The odd rock rolling off the back of a truck was nothing compared to the shower of rocks and dirt we'd get in the face when one of them zoomed by us on the way back toward Rosenberg. Thwack! It was like a war zone out there. We pulled off to the side of the road to confer.

Checking the map, we realized there was nothing we could do for at least another 11 miles until we reached East Bernard, where we would finally come across a road that would take us north to I-10. Yes, even the hated I-10 was preferable to Alt 90 on that August morning. Eleven miles to go. Thwack! Ping! Whap! Ouch.

Somewhere down deep inside of me there is a reservoir of something which I cannot name, something which makes me go forward even when I want to throw up my hands and cry. I dug for that something with all my might, set my mind to the situation at hand, and decided I would just zen out for the remainder of that 11 miles. I would become one with the dump trucks and the rocks until I could get the hell off that road. I twisted the throttle open a little wider, willing the 11 miles to fly on by. Dodge that rock, don't lose your balance, shield your face, here comes a big wave of flack, pass that sucker and get on to the next one.

Suddenly my consciousness once again focused on my traveling partner. Where was 00-Nothing? I checked my rearview mirror. There was something in the distance that looked like him but I couldn't be sure whether the tiny speck in front of the dump truck was him or just a figment of my imagination. I slowed a little after I topped a small rise and waited for him to catch up. Dump trucks came and went, but still no 00-Nothing. I made a U-turn and started back the way I had come, watching for the Fat Boy to pop up over every rise and alternately searching for his dead, smashed, lifeless body in the ditch along the way.

Finally, I saw him! He was coming down the road, hell-bent-for-leather like the devil himself was riding on his tail. We met at the top of a small knoll. I waited for the dump truck behind him to whoosh on by, spraying us with its bounty, and then I swung Lockie Louise around and followed him until he pulled off on the shoulder and shut the Fat Boy down.

I knew something was wrong when he dismounted and started walking toward me. He was breathing fire. "Where in hell have you been?!?", he shouted. "When you didn't see me behind you, why in God's name didn't you come check on me?!?" He was livid. And I couldn't blame him. I had obviously broken the first sacred rule of motorcycle riding - Always Keep Your Eye On Your Partner. "What happened?", I squeaked.

"I laid the GD motorcycle down in the ditch is what happened! Trying to get out of the way of a big rock, I dodged to one side, hit a slick spot, and down I went. Where the hell were you?!? I thought I'd never get out of the ditch. I kept waiting for you, waiting for you, sure you would ride up just any minute ... you know I can't pick that motorcycle up by myself!"

"No?", I said, gesturing toward the Fat Boy now sitting serenely beside the road. "Hmmm. Ya coulda fooled me!"