I begin my ride on Beartooth Highway at the western end in Cooke City, Montana, where, the night before, there was a delightful street party. So much fun! It then wig-wags into Wyoming for a bit before twisting back into Montana. All of its 67-69 miles are in either the Absaroka or Beartooth Mountains. It climbs to 10,947 feet above sea level. The weather and views are superior.

I’m toward the end of the ride, when I make a 180° turn and in front of me is a long straightaway. (A straightaway is a tad unusual on this road.) I hear tires screeching, look in my rearview mirror and see a brand new Corvette with a custom paint job. Tan with gold flames. Yeah, you read that right. Tan with gold flames. Sigh. Let me go off on a rant here.

It’s a special kind of oblivious mind that will cause someone to spend thousands of dollars to paint what is possibly the most American of badass American cars tan and gold. Corvettes should be aggressively painted with something like bloodthirsty red. Or cold-blooded black or shark gray. Dark blue, even white and yellow will work sometimes. Maybe a ruthless racing green. But tan? A tan Corvette? Really? That’s like Dracula wearing a Hawaiian shirt, plaid shorts, and ballet slippers.

Anyway, the guy stomps on the gas so I pull over to let him pass and it’s like I’m at a carnival freak show while I watch a style-deprived boob and his equally clueless silicon girlfriend whizz on by.

Okay, rant over.

So I’m alone. Minding my own business. Not a care. La-di-da, la-di-da. Then, right out of the blue, no warning whatsoever, bang, just like that, an absolutely HUGE spider – must have been a whole half inch across – is crawling across my sunglasses. I squeal and scream like a little girl who just saw her first Halloween Frankenstein, bat the thing away and commence frantically scraping my glasses with both hands.

The Beast (my bike) is veering all over the road and by sheer luck I end up in a turnout. I jump off the bike, hop around like I’m covered with fire ants, jerk off my helmet, jacket, flannel and gloves and violently shake them out. I check my boots, check all the pockets and folds in my jeans and t-shirt, and every nook and cranny on the bike, and conclude that the thing is finally gone.

Hands on knees, breathing heavily, sweat dripping off my nose, whimpering like a cocker spaniel left out in the rain. I’ve successfully dodged a wretched demise! Yes!

A couple riding two-up on a Honda Goldwing ride by and I just know what the lady is saying. “What’d I tell you, Harry, Harley riders from Southern California are nuts.”