But even as I am processing this development, I'm charged with an enervating, predatory excitement. A moment passes. Then with a quick glance in my left mirror I likewise pull out, punching a downshift even as I roll the throttle of my BMW hard around to its stop.
It takes me a minute to catch up to Jim, by which time we've left the rest of the group far behind. As I pull onto his tail he acknowledges my presence by bumping the pace even further. The curling road hardens as it begins the ascent and we both bend to the task with an intense scrutiny. Faster and faster. In moments I'm at the absolute limit of my comfort zone. I run a quick calculus of how much is left, painfully aware of the disadvantages of my BMW compared to his Honda. The answer comes in a flash-not much. Our spiraling run has become lit by a harsh edginess, held together by the most tenuous of threads. I shake my head, knowing how unwise all this is. But I don't stop.
Halfway up the mountain Jim makes his mistake. He glances at his mirror for just an instant, to see if I'm still there. Just the merest sliver of a second. But it's enough. When he looks back his line has already shifted the few inches that make the difference. It takes him off the road into the grass.
Watching it all unfold, I am aghast. In the blink of an eye Jim is a full two feet off the pavement, heading straight for a large strip of Armco. I am certain I am about to watch a man die.
Instead, he makes the greatest save I have ever witnessed. He stays on the throttle, kicking up an enormous roostertail of dirt. Struggling against the sloping, off-camber dirt bank he somehow manages to work the bucking Honda back onto the tarmac, making it just ahead of the razor-sharp Armco.
"Are you okay?" I yell as I come to a stop alongside him. Flipping up his face shield he turns toward me. Even through his helmet I can see the blanched look on his face. There's a long second while we both absorb what just happened. Then he squeezes his eyes into a smile and flips his face shield back down and drops the clutch.
Riding at speed is not for the faint of heart. It punishes the unwary-or simply the unlucky-with a swift harshness. We preach moderation-and believe it when we're saying it. But then we get out there where the roads are fine and the possibilities seem endless and our restraint is left behind in a trail of spun rubber and intoxicating petrol fumes.
So it behooves us to understand this craft of ours.