The engine of my Harley Scorpion howls in my ears as the glowing lines on the tach and speedo stretch upward. Wind and rain lash my face, and my drenched hair sends cold water seeping down the back of my neck. It’s cold, but nothing compared to the chill that’s already settled in my spine like dirty ice. I’ve got the bike bars in a death-grip, squeezing them so hard my forearms ache. It’s the only way I can stop my hands from shaking.