I must have passed out again, because the next thing I can remember is looking up at a rough looking man, about my height, with shoulder length black hair and a thick beard, a smell patch of white under his chin. He had scars on both cheeks, and a node that looked like it had been broken more than I Cared to imagine. There was a serious, stern even, but friendly look on his face, as he slapped lightly at my red hot cheek. "Hey... You alright there?" Hey said, in a strained, aged voice. You could see by the look in his eyes that this man had seen and done things that he would take to the grave. He was not a happy man, yet he seemed compassionate. Once my eyes had adjusted, and my breathing settled, I smiled at him. He had no Idea just how much his stopping would effect me. "I'm sick man... I need meds" I managed. My throat was dry, and bleeding. I could taste the iron on the back of my tongue. As my thoughts started to finally began to settle, I looked him up and down. He was about 6'4" with striking green eyes, and thick arms, covered with tattoos. I spotted a few skulls, a pin up, an eagle and a welcome sight, a hammer and sickle. This guy was no nazi. I'd been brought up to hate fascism, but my run in with a skinhead gang a month previously had made me even more weary. The guy took a canteen from his bike and poured the water into my my mouth. I swallowed greedily and watched as he knelt next to me and smiled again. "I don't know why you are out here? Or how you ended up like this? But I'm not about to leave you to rot... You think you can handle the ride back to my place?" He asked, placing a callused, workers hand onto my own. I nodded in agreement and shivered as the fever twisted the proverbial knife. I could feel that heat from the sun on my face, but inside I was cold as ice and aching from the sickness. He helped me to my feet, this mysterious saviour, and together we got me onto the back of the bike. My head lolled as I watched him strap my pack to the back. I could feel the bike sink with our combined weight on top of its pristine black and chrome body. A beautiful Harley Davidson, with learner tassels and saddlebags. American Iron as they like to call it. Before I could protest, and with a swift kick, the engine burst into ice and we were off, heading down the blacktop, heading for the horizon, chasing the now almost setting sun. Cacti and rock formations that had seemed to be so solid and substantial to me over the last week, soon melted into a blur as we thundered down this lost desert road... I feel myself drift in and out of consciousness as we travel, my eyes transfixed by the colours on the back of this guys leather kutte. Again, I cannot tell if minutes or hours have passed, but I'm shocked out of my haze as the engine cuts out, and we come to a stop outside of a large wooden building, one side lined the bikes, the other with tables and chairs. It's clear that nothing had been done to maintain the place since Bush was in power, but there was a strange charm to the place, the neon on the window, and soft blasting from a radio gave it an inviting energy. Was I home?