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"There was no helmet on those nights, no speed limit, and no cooling it down on the curves..... Into first gear, forgetting the cars and letting the beast wind out...thirty-five, forty-five...then into second and wailing through the light at Lincoln Way, not worried about green or red signals..... pushing seventy-five and the beginning of a windscream in the ears, a pressure on the eyeballs like diving into water off a high board. Bent forward, far back on the seat, and a rigid grip on the handlebars as the bike starts jumping and wavering in the wind. Into fourth, and now there's no sound except the wind. Screw it all the way over, reach through the handlebars to raise the headlight beam, the needle leans down on a hundred, and wind-burned eyeballs strain to see down the center line, trying to provide a margin for the reflexes.
That's when the strange music starts....." - Hunter S. Thompson
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