VIII Drug Dealing and Train Racing During this whole period, Scott Worth was incredibly supportive of me. He was the rare employer that seemed interested in the welfare of his employees. I figured that this was because he was a nice guy, and I liked to think that he considered me a valuable employee and was interested in keeping me around for my positive contribution to his gaming store. I was interested in getting some wheels that were a little flashier and little faster than the VW that was getting me around, and Scott mentioned that he might be able to talk to his parents about co-signing on a loan for me. This sounded like a fantastic deal to me, and so I didn’t waste any time lining up nearly eight grand worth of Honda CBR 600 crotch rocket, with helmet and full riding leathers on the side. They signed the loan and now I truly had a vehicle with which I could live on the edge. A lot of people told me that I should be careful on the bike. "Too many people are dying," they said. I’d have to remind them that was the main reason that I bought the thing. So I could die on it. Who wants to die in their sleep, or choking on a ball of phlegm, unable to breathe because their own lungs just can’t pull their own weight any more? I wanted to die with my hair on fire, going as fast as I can- cutting the edge. I wanted to die going around a corner doing ninety-five miles an hour, and just go boom. I wanted to arrive in the after life doing one hundred and twenty; roll through the pearly gates and say, "Hey, I’m here!" Everybody else can step through. I want to roll through. When I first got on the bike I didn’t really know how to ride it that well. It did zero to sixty in about 3.4 seconds with a top end of about 145 to 150. Learning to ride like an expert became my passion. I talked to professional motorcycle racers and learned the tricks of the trade. I practiced until I could go into a turn and scrape the hard rubber knee pads of my leather riding suit along the ground. I practiced until I could pull a wheelie and ride it for half a mile. Every time I got on the freeway I would take the Honda up to 120 miles an hour. I’ve been up to 145 miles an hour more times than I can count on my hands…and toes. I took insane chances and emerged unscathed. My fledgling riding abilities had grown to compensate for the lunatical risks that I took. I tried to kill myself again and again, but each time I had the nerve and talent to pull my fat out of the fire. Buying a motorcycle and, more accurately, riding it as though I were Evil Knievel’s bastard child made me a target of the local constabulary. I was in the parking lot of Alfie’s pizza when a man approached me and wanted to talk about motorcycles. He was enthusiastic and asked me how fast my bike would go. Eventually he got around to asking me where I liked to kick out the jams and open up the throttle. I told him that the flats between Everett and Marysville made a good place to open her up. He kind of nodded his head and excused himself. I watched as he crossed the parking lot and got into a Washington State Patrol Car. The guy was a state trooper,

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