On Route 66 I came up with some pretty good reasons why I live to travel by motorcycle. One of the top motives was quality time alone. Then I met up with The Guys (Brasfield, Cherney and Groover) in New Mexico for our four-bike comparison. They roared into the gas station where I was waiting, we topped off, traded bikes and rode away, all within 10 minutes. The sun was setting and it was 200 miles to our destination. Just as the desert turned blue-gray we turned off the interstate onto a snaking, bumpy and utterly deserted 150-mile stretch. And the magic began. These are people I’ve ridden with extensively and, as far as their riding goes, I know them intimately. For the next two and a half hours we didn’t ride together as much as we danced. We’d stop and switch partners and dance again. At midnight, we ate in a Denny’s where we could admire the bikes through the window. We laughed and talked about riding, aliens and Route 66. It didn’t even matter that the food sucked.