They follow I80 west across Pennsylvania and Ohio, miles ground up under the wheels of their choppers and spat out behind. Riding in formation, War in front, Pest on his right wing and just behind; Big D. directly behind War and Famy on his wing behind Pest. Famy has a bucket of KFC braced in his crotch and tosses bones over his shoulder.

An airplane passes beneath, between their tires and the road. If the crew notices the riders, they sure as hell don’t mention it on their radio.

Across the border into Indiana, onto I90 . Big D. is still trying to come up with a joke about toll roads and the bell tolling for thee, though the riders aren’t about to land for tollbooths. Nor are they going to come down for the all-night home-cooking place Famy knows about in Crooked Lake. The empty KFC bucket spirals off into the night and in seven hours Bobby Krutchner will wonder how it got on his roof.

The riders ride fast and the riders ride high. Come two a.m., the rubber will hit the road again on W 55th.