I pointed the bike on up 90 toward Alpine. The sky blackened, the wind howled, and lightning seared the horizon. The Devil was on my tail; time to see how fast the Vampire could fly. At last I descended on Alpine cold, wet and thirsty. Temperatures had dropped some 50 degrees. Rain, snow and, amazingly, hail fell on my head in big, hard buckets. I holed up for two nights, drank rotgut whiskey and watched more Weather Channel than any man should be able to. The psycho clouds finally exhausted their fury, the sun broke through, and I was rested, ready and pretty sober.