There are strange things on the road between Loope and Markleeville an hour or three shy of midnight. Us, for instance. No moon, just a few billion stars above Monitor Pass and the sort of pitch-blackness normally found inside a cow. And what looks like a brown feral bathroom rug waddling through the high beams in a set of 60-mph switchbacks. This is not touring. Not the traditional AM/FM, his and hers, rolling sedan chair, opulence uber alles American idiom, anyway. We don't have enough time, patience, polyester or even the right motorcycles for that. Thank God.