he tacos are a godsend. Also the rubbery chicken quesadilla and the scuzzy bean burrito and the half-gallon of Mountain Dew, even though the latter was flat and the color of radioactive urine. There was even good in the Taco Bell hot-sauce packets, which come in five flavors, all of which smell like old chemical plant and shoe. Unless you are as stoned as a billy goat. Then your brain operates mostly in exclamation points. That Dew is transcendent! The sauce is a flavor cannon! The tacos are Ferran Adriá on a good night, Thomas Keller before the hype, Alain Ducasse cooking from his private stock of mushy tortillas and yellow cheese food! The world becomes sodium and sense, and then you fall back in your chair and unzip your Aerostich and meditate on the glory of the universe. Or at least, I did. We got stoned for this story. So stoned that I briefly forgot how to put on a helmet. Then we rode a tiny Honda, in a controlled environment, in the pursuit of knowledge. None of it turned out like you’d think.