Something that worries Hunter, something he doesn’t like, is the idea of traveling across the country with Itch if he is transporting weed. If that were the case—three bikers, out of state—it conjures an image of outlaws, which none of them are. Just three gearhead buddies who like bikes, ink, and powerlifting, and enjoy tossing a few beers back and grilling some steaks; they are the type of guys who don’t wear watches. Which fueled their decision to meet at the Sagebrush Steakhouse for a tender cut of beef and maybe a few hoppy brews. Itch had told Hunter and Nugget to go ahead; he would meet them at the steakhouse once he got his business done.

Hunter’s mind rolls with tidbits of facts—something the road produced within him—as they cross over from North Carolina, the Tar Heel State, and into Tennessee, the Volunteer State. Eventually, they hit Kentucky, the Bluegrass State.

Taking in the surrounding wilderness the hue of an unripe avocado. Loblolly pines, beech, birch, magnolia, and black oak. Hunter thinks about his father, who had been pretty much absent from his childhood Monday through Friday, but then present on Saturday and Sunday. He thinks of the long walks they would take, learning about the different trees that made up the woods around them. He thinks of his father’s love for the road. Maybe, being a salesman was something in the blood—something his dad had passed on to him. But for Hunter, the road is most satisfying when he travels by motorcycle. He had gone by car and even on foot, but biking is best. He prefers the long road trips, the scenery, passing through the small towns. When he can, he takes the country roads, seeing the rural areas. The mom-and-pop eateries and gas stations. Older homes and farms. There is something about seeing the lives of others out there, how they live. Their day-to-day culture. There is a freedom in just being able to get up and ride, never answering to anyone. But you need your bike. He thought of Chinese monks, given a single rice bowl and told to not lose it, because it was a symbol of life itself. Well, Hunter’s motorcycle is his bowl, his symbol of freedom, of life.

Itch is to meet someone in a rural area outside the town, then motor over to the steakhouse. They had discussed camping for the night at the Cumberland Gap Park. Or they might get in some more miles before dark—cruise over to Daniel Boone National Forest, maybe make it to Louisville or even cross the bridge into Indiana to camp. If they make it to Indiana, Hunter can look up his old friend Dog, a spelunker he hasn’t seen or spoken with in years. Then they can make their way to Illinois the next day.