The Fast Road to Nowhere

There are few inventions in this world more persuasive than a motorcycle with an impatient rider upon it. It has a remarkable ability to convince a fellow that he has entered into a private arrangement with the laws of physics, and that gravity, common sense, and the sheriff are all merely advisory committees.

Such confidence generally lasts right up to the moment it meets a guardrail, which has never shown the slightest respect for optimism. So it happened one Sunday evening (July 12) in Virginia City, where a deputy sheriff found himself nearly sharing the same patch of road with a black motorcycle in a manner that would have required one of them to become considerably flatter than nature intended.

The deputy, believing that this arrangement lacked the proper civility, attempted the ancient American ritual known as a traffic stop.

The rider slowed for a moment, which gave everyone hope that reason had finally climbed aboard the machine. He even glanced over his shoulder, perhaps to admire the scenery or to confirm that the deputy had noticed his talent.

Unfortunately, the glance was merely the preface to the universal declaration of youthful overconfidence: he twisted the throttle, disappearing north on C Street with the enthusiasm of a man fleeing from moderation itself. The deputy gave chase, but there are occasions when wisdom arrives disguised as an underpowered patrol vehicle.

The motorcycle was traveling so quickly through the wrong lanes that pursuit became little more than a spectator sport. A sheriff's deputy's badge carries considerable authority, but a vehicle's horsepower has always been suspicious of government.

It was not long before the race ended in the only fashion such races usually do. The motorcycle lay upon the pavement like a gambler who had wagered everything against arithmetic. A guardrail, faithful to its occupation, had interrupted the proceedings with impartial firmness. The rider had been thrown down the embankment, where speed finally surrendered to silence.

The deputy hurried to render aid, and paramedics followed with every skill that modern medicine could lend. Yet some debts cannot be renegotiated. The rider was pronounced dead at the scene, and all the speed in the world could not purchase another minute.

The investigators, who possess the unfortunate duty of translating tragedy into paperwork, reported that speed and alcohol appeared to have contributed to the crash. It is an old partnership, one that has ruined fortunes, families, elections, and Saturday nights with unwavering consistency.

Now the Nevada State Police will measure skid marks, examine twisted metal, and calculate distances with admirable precision. The Lyon County Sheriff's Office will attend to the solemn business that follows every unnecessary death. Together they will assemble a report full of facts, figures, and conclusions.

Civilization has built roads for travel, guardrails for protection, and laws for preservation. They work surprisingly well until someone mistakes them for suggestions. Then the only thing traveling faster than the motorcycle is regret, and it always arrives first for the people left behind.