The Scorpion is screaming through the night, the big bike pushing its limit, wailing south on Highway 5 at one-sixty klicks. It’s not that I’m going anywhere—or that I know where to go—it’s just that I need to think, and I think better when I’m moving, preferably sitting in the saddle of a high-powered speed machine. It’s always been like this, even when I was growing up in Lake Geneva, before my family moved the fifty klicks or so north to Milwaukee proper. I’d wanted a trail bike, but my parents wouldn’t hear of it. Instead they got me a fifth-hand Bombardier WaveRunner, a water jet-powered thing that looked like a cross between a snowmobile and a miniature boat.