A message arrives in the usual manor alerting me that there is going to be an impromptu newsboys bike ride in the countryside. If I want to go along, and I most definitely do, I must meet the lads at a small gas station in a little village named after a piece of cutlery. Before I can finish reading the details, I am reaching under my bed for my goggles. I unzip my gear bag and a remaining gust of stagnant Baja breeze rushes past my face. I have not used my gear since I was racing towards the sea of Cortez, throttle open as wide as the spending limit of an Arabian Sultans black Amex card!

I drop mental bits of Hansel and Gretel candy all along the twisting trail out to the village with the tiny gas station in hopes of finding my way home again when this is all over. As I drive, I start thinking back to Baja, the excitement, the adrenalin, thrashing through cactus, running out of water in the desert, running out of gas, Duncan siphoning gas from his own bike to make sure I made it back to camp, twice. Why are the guys riding dirt bikes this afternoon out in horse pastures and polo grounds I ask my self?

I take my last mental GPS reading and turn left, moments later I see the sign for the gas station and turn into the parking lot. I pass the pump and notice four massive BMW GS 1200 adventure bikes. I park and walk up to the gas station and see the guys sitting in pre show formation around a rickety wooden table and four cups of fresh café de motorrad, high octane riding java. We make eye contact as Peter heads out to refuel his bike, Paul follows, followed later by Jeff, and eventually I am left sitting with Duncan who gives me the details of today’s sortie. “We’re headed out on those beauties mate”, “Yup those are ours”! I almost fall off my chair. The boys have gone from two stroke Japanese dirt bikes, to full fledged German man o’ wars, a thousand cc’s of separation! Duncan tells me that they are going to do the GO tour on the adventure bikes, aptly named for this gang of renegade Aussie rockers! "The whole tour?" "Yup, the whole tour mate!""

Outside the boys are refueling and making last minute adjustments. The bikes are brand new and this is an all conditions pre tour preparation ride. As a super fan like myself, and one who has attained a tourist visa to the inner circle of newsboysdom, one must always live on the edge of a triple shot espresso, prepared for rock and roll adventure at any moment. I start shooting as they prep. Paul looks at me and says, “you can stay here and photograph us as we leave, or you can jump in that SUV and go along if you like”. I stand around waiting for the guys to hit the starter buttons. Precision German engineering sends a low frequency sound wave to my innermost man core, instantly causing one leg to quiver uncontrollably. One last shot of the guys and I am stumbling for the SUV, camera and an open can of emergency prayers in hand.

We pull out of the gas station faster then “Seven Mary Four and Five” and we are cruising down the country road. The bikes look wicked from all 12 angles I have noticed. I warn myself not to look directly into the eyes of the beast, especially with both headlights on, one could hurt ones eyes, lest one be seduced and fall out of the back of the SUV. Normal rock and roll clothing is limited to, yet at the same time open to, all shades and fabrics of the black denomination. Today that rule has been broken with the riding gear being an off white adventure grey, awesome for night visibility, with black and red trim. Helmets range from black, silver, to white. Boots being purely all black, hopefully matching not only the gloves but the jocks and socks… back to riding now.

A couple quick turns and we are under bridges, reminding me of the worship albums but louder and faster! We ride on until we reach a fork in the road. Peter leads the expedition to the right, an excellent choice which puts us even farther out into the beautiful Tennessee countryside.

As we ride we pass a huge set of silos, obviously built for some sort of feed or grain. What if there were missiles in there. What if Paul Coleman was a double agent working for another nation, perhaps another band…perhaps another band from another nation. What if the notes he plays in his amazing guitar solos were hidden coded messages to other double or even triple agents out in the crowd. Different cities, different agents, different messages . . . Hmm . . . could make sense if you hadn’t slept in a week . . . just a thought. Back to reality courtesy of a massive drop in the pavement indicating that we have just reached the end of the road and now we are on dirt, red dirt, like the dirt we saw in Uganda a couple months ago.

The guys ride on, the dirt roads being accepted like a reward for good behavior on the pavement. To my right, facing the guys from out the back of the SUV, is Peter, across from him is Duncan, followed by Jeff and Paul. Peter uses international sign language, not too far removed from some of the local sign language I have noticed by local indigenous folk in these areas, to indicate that we are to stop and turn onto a washed out trail. There is a roar of down shifting as the lads direct the bikes into the woods. As we are swallowed by the forest, the ride takes on a new set of demands. The trail is wet and slippery yet inviting. We head deeper and deeper until stopping to rest and compare notes on the bikes. There is talk of suspension settings, the protruding piston heads on either side of the GS 1200’s, as well as comments of needing to be home before the wife finds out that someone is not stacking firewood.

This is my moment to shoot with the guys. I set up my Toyo field view and pray that the boys will wait long enough for me to capture this moment for fan eternity. My ribs are sore from leaning out the back of the SUV and I am with out espresso, yet the Lord provides and the boys enjoy the moment of rest. I quickly rattle off a card or so of digital images and then run to the 4x5 loaded with my favorite film, Polaroid type 55, top shelf all the way. I feel like one of the photographers in the civil war, tripod, camera, and cloth overhead to help with focusing. The guys stay still long enough to get a couple frames off and then, just like in St. Petersburg, Russia, it is all over.

With the sound of German thunder, they are on the bikes. I quickly get the 4x5 camera out of the way and dive into the back of the SUV for my D2x. I crank on the 17-55mm lens and kneel down in the middle of the trail, between two massive watery mud puddles, sacrificing myself for art and history. Sure enough, the lads are pumped with adrenalin and the escalating realization that one must get home before the sun goes down around the dinner table.

Throttles open, a tap of the booted toe on the shifter and a release of the clutch, Habibi is a sitting duck. I tighten my grip on the camera and pull the lens as wide as it will go. If I survive this shot, I will be a legend. I catch the words lingering in the cold air to the Lords prayer, ye though I pass through the valley of death, I shall fear no…clack, clack, clack, clack. I think I got it, my eyes are closed and I am totally soaked in mud water. I open my eyes to see the last frame still lingering on my camera monitor, it is the blurred image of a BMW stampede, water everywhere, steam lifting from the piston heads, mud flying from the tires. I turn to see where the guys have gone and I see no one, nothing at all. They are gone. Once again I am alone, camera in hand.