The 2008 Harley-Davidson Deluxe FLSTN in White Gold/Silver two-tone paint with Vance & Hines Straight Shot pipes was shined up and ready for me to saddle. My riding guide asked, “On a scale of 1–10, what type of motorcyclist are you? 1 being a novice, 10 an expert.”“I’m definitely a 1—but I passed the test,” waving my DMV certification as proof of my legitimacy.

He asked me to drive the 1000 lb beast about 40 yards, to the end of the parking lot. I put on my token black leather jacket, said a quick prayer, and started the ignition.

I gently let out the clutch and pulled on the gas, slowly made my way down the lot, basking in the intoxicating mix of adrenaline, excitement, and disbelief that I was riding “a hog.” My premature celebration ceased as soon as I tried to stop at the end of the parking lot. As I grabbed the front brake, I accidentally took the gas with it. The bike began to roar with acceleration and I totally freaked out … The next few seconds were all a blur but, suddenly, there I was: bike on its side, and me beside it.

“Well, at least we got falling out of the way.” I heard my riding guide proclaim.

The Tides restaurant, your typical conservative formal five star dining establishment. The guest list was made up of middle-aged men and women wearing pastel colored polo shirts and docker slacks pulled up to their backs. Facing our booth was a large party of 20, from a little known drug company called Merck. They all sat there, stone faced and sullen, stuffing their faces with meat and sauce.. We took pity on the pathetic party and made it our mission to liven up the evening.

Oh waitress..

please send over a blo job shot and an anonymous note for a ring toting man with a broken arm who looked like a gay version of Lorenzo McCracken. The note read ‘Does your arm hurt?

Clearly our waitress valued a good laugh over her job, and she complied. The gay Lorenzo McCracken, read the note and quickly drank his blo job shot without an ounce of whipped cream on his lips, clearly this was not a first for him!

We had lit a spark of joy, and decided to continue on with our mission…

Oh waitress…

A double shot of wild turkey for the brown-noser at the table

A shot of stock well vodka for the man who dragged them all there ie; The Boss

Everyone at the table began chattering loudly and lively about the mystery shots being sent over. None of them had any idea they were actually sent from the booth across the room. We watched as they drank and ate with big goofy alcohol induced grins on their faces. All except for one bitter suspicious man, who refused to take part in the merriment.

Oh waitress…

For the sourpuss, a large glass of chocolate milk.

As I rode my sparkling pink bicycle decorated in Christmas tree lights and big fluffy flowers, through the playa, I was mesmerized by the never ending sea of art. Reveling in the unique opportunity to discover something so beautiful that doesn’t have a name, definition, or explanation on Wikipedia.

The barren dessert had become a museum filled with innovative art pieces of undefined beauty that begged everyone to touch them, explore them, climb through them. The beauty of burning man isn’t just the art, it’s the intimacy that each person brings to the dessert.

On Saturday night, we burned the Man. As the procession started, the entire dessert gathered round, in all its colorful glory. Music playing, lights glowing, and people dancing in anticipation of the burn. As the man ignited, some people cheered, others went silent, but everyone was present, experiencing something personal, something special. We left the desert, the same way we came. Only filthy, hungry, tired, and sad that we would now have to wait another year to come back.