I sit on the rear, leaning forward with my fingertips pressing against the tank of the K100RS. This isn't how I'd imagined it would be. I want to hold onto him, tightly. But this isn't holding on. This is praying. We're not out of the pit before I'm having misgivings on a cosmic scale. And then it gets worse in a hurry.
The bike launches itself toward turn two, a long, arcing right-hander. Pridmore's style is to cut toward the inside of every corner, to take away the ability of a trailing bike to pass, but there are no bikes out here that will pass him today or would even want to try. When it dawns on me that he really is going to slam into that turn at some godless speed, I try to suppress a moan. A moment later he has the machine heeled over to the right at an angle that shakes me to my core. This is going to hurt like hell, I think. But I'll be unconscious then and won't give a damn anymore.
And with that realisation a sublime peace envelopes me, as if my nerve endings had been coated with morphine. We exit the turn still alive, take turn three to the inside (as usual), become almost airborne at turn four, shriek downhill to the 90-degree left-hander (inside), and cover the hundreds of yards of back straight in less time than it takes me to recite the Apostle's Creed. He doesn't come off on pit road, but takes another lap. By now my spirit is two hundred yards above the bike, circling the track casually like a bird, watching my corporeal form on the back of a red bike blur through time and space without sorrow, toil, or care. And then it is over.
The Higdon Chronicles Vol 1 Robert Higdon pp35-6