Summer of 1999: After a last minute briefing, Denis wishes me luck and jumps in the dually and heads to the far end of the course. He'll be in constant contact with the rest of the crew, but likes to position himself to watch the run uninterrupted. He's also navigating our huge enclosed race trailer, so he needs a head start to get to the other end.

For me, any hopes of traveling in comfort were immediately dismissed as John tugged and pulled at my safety harness until he was satisfied there was no means of escape. Not unlike the great Houdini, my arms and legs were restrained, my body cloaked in a thick fire-retardant suit, and a tight Nomex liner mashed against my face, making it difficult to breathe through my full-faced helmet.

As if that weren't enough, he then wedged a neck brace between my shoulders and the base of the helmet. It reminded me of the time I spent the night in the hospital strapped to a board, my neck in traction, while I waited for the specialist to arrive the next morning. Comfort in streamlined motorcycles is more of an afterthought than a necessity.

As John finished the 10-minute routine of strapping me in, I noticed the beads of sweat building around his brow. I immediately reached forward and flicked on the electric pump that filled my cool suit with ice water. Before this simple luxury, the trip was barely tolerable, due to the intense heat contained within the cockpit. But now, under a controlled environment, things were well, cool . . .

I pulled my arms to my chest as the canopy was latched into place, completely enclosing me inside. Claustrophobia is not an option in this job description. I flip the MoTeC computer screen into warmup mode and wait for the starter to engage. After a few heavy clunks and chugs, the motor turns over freely. I flip on the ignition switch and the dead rotating mass suddenly comes to life.

The sound is amazing. Deep, loud almost angry. At only 6 inches behind my head, I know it very well. A few seconds later the switch is flicked again, this time into race mode. It's almost show time. I can't see behind me, and peripheral vision is also somewhat limited. For that matter, looking straight ahead has its difficulties, as the long nose of the bike forces you to look far ahead, the horizon barely visible over the dash and bodywork.

John steps into my line of sight and holds up the two pins that were just pulled from the retractable skids which hold me upright until my forward momentum takes over. Without the pins removed it would be impossible for me to retract the skids into the bodywork once under way a definite safety factor. He then pulls on the tether attached to the tow vehicle and instructs the driver to inch ahead until all the slack is taken up. We make eye contact as he gives me the thumbs up signal. I return the gesture as I prepare myself for something neither Disneyland nor Universal Studios has yet to recreate. This is one e-ticket ride, and I'm in the best seat in the house!

As the tether tightens, I take a deep breath and ready myself for a thrill only a few people have been lucky enough to experience. The heavy mass of metal, fiberglass, and highly combustible fuel jerks forward. I favor the right skid and try to keep the machine leaned in that direction until enough momentum carries me past the need for mechanical assistance. Once that point is reached, I retract the skids and balance the machine delicately as the tow vehicle increases our speed.

A strange metamorphosis has just taken place. The second the skids left the salt, I was no longer piloting this marvel of engineering, this computerized, technologically advanced mechanical wizardry I was riding a motorcycle. I was finally back in familiar territory, and I was liking it!

Thanks to many years chasing behind a ski boat on water skis, I was actually quite comfortable being towed by a tether attached to a rapidly accelerating motorized vehicle. Comfortable to a point that when it was time to release, I could cut across an imaginary wake of salt and slingshot myself by the tow vehicle while releasing the tether, still free wheeling out of gear.

It's time to get serious now . . . I rev the engine for good measure, and as the rpm start to fall I engage the transmission, which simultaneously retards the ignition. This in turn offers free play in the gearbox to allow for a clean shift. The amount of torque produced by this machine in first gear is incredible. So much so that without adequate throttle control, the rear tire could light up uncontrollably. Blistered or shredded tires have no place on a machine designed to go half the speed of sound. On this machine, first gear will take you to about 160-170 mph. Not bad for a "granny gear"!

For those of you who have seen the motorcycling documentary On Any Sunday, the narrator described steering a streamliner, where at low speed you turned left to go right and right to go left. Once above a certain mph, he stated, the opposite was true. In my experience driving motorcycle streamliners, he wasn't telling the whole story.

What I mean to say is that, at least in my situation, I was strapped in so tight there was absolutely no room for "body English" to initiate a turn. Instead, to go right you had to first steer left, which would initiate a lean to the right. You would then follow it. The same is true to go left. Denis Manning liked to describe it as taking your hand and balancing a broomstick in your palm. To make it go left you must first move your hand to the right to initiate the lean angle. (This practice is actually true for all motorcycles, but must be more aggressively initiated in streamliners due to the lack of body English.)

The basics of steering actually do change at high speed, but not exactly how it was described in the movie. At high speed, there are air effect and wind drag to deal with. And this motorcycle is 20 feet long, so it is also a high-speed rolling billboard. Side winds have much more effect than on a conventional motorcycle. Anyways, back to the run . . .

We have a state-of-the-art computerized digital readout display covering everything from mph and rpm to what gear I'm in, where I'm at on the track, top attained speed, and I'm sure if there was room for it, it could even make coffee this thing is tricked out! Indy cars and Formula One cars use a similar device.

I'm doing 160 and we're still in first gear. Shifting to second has its moments. If I shift too soon the engine could bog, too late and it over-revs. If I nail it, it's like finding that elusive sweet spot. Things get real happy!

The tranny gods are with us today, as the bike shifts flawlessly into the next cog. Life is good . . .

In second gear, the bike takes on a whole new personality. Because we now have a fair amount of momentum on our side, I can start to accelerate much more aggressively. The engine really stands on its toes and roars. The sound is much louder now. It's gone beyond the angry stage-this thing is pissed!

Hurling down the salt, I do my best to keep one eye at least occasionally focused on the speedo and wonder if it's working properly. 175, 180, 190, 200 mph and climbing like nobody's business. The rear of the bike is now in a constant drift from wheel spin, but remains stable and controllable. I plant my feet against the floorboards and push myself as high as I can to see out over the nose. I use the horizon as a point of reference. It tells me if I'm perpendicular to the ground or if I'm running dangerously askew.

As I lift myself higher in the cockpit for a better view, things suddenly become a blur. The hard shell of my helmet makes contact with the steel cage surrounding my head. The vibrations are at such a high frequency that the muscles in my eyes used for focusing cannot react fast enough. I pull my head away ever so slightly and try to regain my composure as well as my focus. 225, 235, 240-is that thing for real?!!!

Shifting gears is normally no big deal. You want to go faster, you grab a higher gear. At 240 miles an hour on a slick racing surface while lying on your back trying to counter the constant wind shifts, it can get . . . interesting. Time is something you don't have a lot of. Ten miles of salt goes by pretty fast when you're in a hurry. I watch my horizon until I'm sure I'm perpendicular with God and the ground. I'm still holding my own between the markers on either side of the course. The tach says shift, the horizon agrees, and I'm still somewhat centered on the course . . . "Click"

Technology is so cool. I hold the throttle pinned, push the button, and hope for the best. The shift is made cleanly, third gear and still picking up speed. 250, 255, 260. Either the speedo has gone bananas, or we're starting to get with the program now.

Speed does weird things to your mind. For example, the mile markers that line the course which normally take about a minute each to pass by, are now lining up like a picket fence. Even though the course is usually 80 to 100 feet wide, (and the mile markers border each side of the course) at extreme speeds they narrow quite quickly. It feels like trying to wedge an 18-wheeler into a "compact" parking spot with the accelerator mashed during rush hour. Things are getting pretty busy at this point.

And then there's the wind.

One of the biggest factors in speed racing on two wheels is making a clean pass with either the wind at your back, or a direct head wind. Cross winds are no fun and increase the pucker factor 10 fold at high speed. Luckily, on this particular run the air is calm and no side winds come into play. But at 265 mph, the rate of acceleration is starting to taper. Our sleek aerodynamic shape feels like it has somehow transformed itself into that of a Mack truck bucking a serious head wind while climbing the Grapevine on I-5.

The electronic tach strains to reach redline, the speedo hovers at 270, and now both wheels are in a drift, fighting to stay in line while the mile markers start to blur along with everything else. I'm nearing the 4-mile marker and need to get in high gear soon so I can sprint through the measured mile (from the 5 to the 6) flat out.

The down-force against the nose of the bike is so great that the bike tries to wander from side to side. The slightest direction change can use up the entire width of the course before you realize it is happening. At this point I'm committed. Letting off on the throttle will only make things worse. A bike 20 feet long barreling down the salt with less than optimal traction does not like sudden changes. Just letting off on the throttle could provoke a severe weight transfer, which could overload the front end, resulting in possible tire failure or an uncontrollable speed wobble.

Instead, I stiffen my grip on the bars and press forward the throttle still pinned. I counter every weave and actually find a rhythm that makes the ride almost predictable. The extra maneuvering and the higher wind resistance add to the bike's vibrations, taking a toll on my already limited vision.

But I'm in the zone. I can do this.

I can see the 4-mile marker coming up and verify it on the MoTeC screen. I time my rhythm with the bike's constant weave, placing us as close to the center of the course as possible, while aligning the horizon with the base of the windshield. The target centers in my cross hairs, and I fire.

One of the only real "trouble areas" we have is the transmission. On about 80 percent of our runs we've experienced a transmission failure of one sort or another. Making it through all four gears smoothly is an accomplishment for our team. Four hundred and twenty horsepower spinning a tranny faster than any other motorcycle tranny has ever spun has its difficulties. John Jans designed and built a work of art that will one day carry us to the all-time world's fastest speed record for motorcycles. But until we get there, a few improvements still need to be made and a few bugs worked out.

At this point of the game everyone involved is standing on the sidelines holding their breath. This reminds me of that old saying about knowing the difference between being involved or committed. It's like a bacon and egg breakfast. The chicken was involved, but the pig he was committed . . . right now I'm feeling a bit committed myself. Keep in mind, most airplanes need less than half this speed to get off the ground.

I squeeze the button one final time while doing my best to keep the bike pointed somewhat centered down the course. If she shifts, we just might be making history. If she doesn't, we're toast. At least we had a complete breakfast . . .

I glance at the tach as the shift is made and the rpm drop from 8,000 to around 6,500. The speedo also drops from about 270 to 265. That brief instant the ignition retards and the tallest cog is engaged, takes its toll on our forward momentum. The wind resistance against the front of the machine is so great that it actually slows the bike down during a shift that took less than a second to transpire. The good news is the shift from third to fourth was executed perfectly. Score one "attaboy" for John!

In only a matter of seconds the 5-mile marker comes into sight. At these speeds it takes a little longer for the revs to climb, but I'm at around 7,200 rpm going into the 5-mile and approaching 280 mph! It seems impossible, but in only seconds the 6-mile marker is already fast approaching. I take one final glance at the MoTeC as I maneuver my right hand in position to hit the high-speed parachute. In the time it takes for my eyes to leave the salt and focus on the MoTeC, and then back to the salt, nearly a half-mile has passed. To give you a model for comparison, at 300 mph you would be traveling approximately the distance of one and a half football fields per second!

My last glimpse registers 7,500 rpm and a speed of 289 mph. While the speed and rpm are still climbing, I have other concerns to deal with which are more important. A loud thump smashes against the inside of the composite body, telling me something has let go. The transmission also makes a peculiar sound that causes reason for concern. The good news is the run is just about over and for the most part, it has been a success.

With the throttle still pinned to avoid any rapid weight transfer, I deploy the high-speed chute. The 6-mile marker disappears behind me as a firm, yet steady tug pulls at the rear of the machine. At nearly 300 mph on a 2,000-pound machine, conventional brakes are pretty much useless. The tiny, 18-inch, high-speed chute creates enough drag for me to roll out of the throttle.

What happens next I can never find the right words to describe. The maximum speed indicator locked in at just over 291 mph. Not a bad run, but still a little short of the record. As I scrub off speed, I watch the speedo while preparing to deploy the big chute. At 6 feet in diameter, this thing can be a little nasty at times. If a crosswind comes up, it will pull the rear of the bike in whatever direction it is blowing. If I pull the chute too soon, at too high a rate of speed, it can literally rip the bike in two. If the parachute fails, I have one spare, provided they don't become tangled.

A lot of information dances around in the back of your mind about all the possibilities. But at the same time, you want to get this thing stopped-preferably with the shiny side up. I wait until we're slowed up to a cool 270 mph. I brace myself and once again check to make sure I'm as perpendicular to the salt as possible. I maneuver as close to center as I can, take a deep breath, and throw out the anchor . . .

If you've ever wondered what it's like to deploy a parachute while riding a motorcycle at a high rate of speed, trust me, you better be strapped in! After the pilot chute rips the big guy from its cartridge, there's about a two-second delay before it opens and pulls tight against the tether. At about 265 mph, my harness suddenly tightens into a death-grip around my shoulders and torso. At precisely the same time, my body tries in vain to fly forward out the Plexiglas windshield directly in front of my face. My eyes bulge in my head as it's thrown forward and down against my chest.

For a brief moment, I'm not even watching where I'm going. It really wouldn't matter anyway, as there isn't much I can do until the initial "hit" is over. If you did it right up to this point, things tend to sort themselves out anyway. The rate of deceleration is incredible. I can actually slow the thing down from 265 to about 165 in a little over a half a mile. I cover more ground than that from the time I deploy the shoot until it opens some three seconds later. The feeling is incredible, sort of like running head-on into an airbag a half-mile deep!

The job now is to just stay in front of the parachutes. If it pulls right, I crab over to the right. Same if it pulled left. With the parachutes out, it always feels like the rear end is high and the front buried into the ground. The sensation eases as the speed drops away. At around 80-90 mph, I can finally ease into the rear brakes. They aren't overly powerful, but they get the job done eventually.

I try several times to disengage the transmission, but for whatever reason the thing won't budge. I manually engage the clutch to hopefully minimize the damage already done. Below about 50 mph, the heat and smoke from the engine compartment creeps into the cockpit with me. I'm always concerned if there's a fire, or leaking oil or fuel which could ignite, but that's just an overactive imagination on my part. The crew did a hell of a job, and this run was pretty damn fast-record or not.

Around 20 miles an hour the thing gets a little squirrelly, so I deploy the skids. This little safety net really isn't needed until the very end-as I can usually bring her to a complete stop on my own before gently easing her over onto it. It always feels like the thing will tip right over, but it doesn't . . . most of the time.

I cut the engine just before she stops and I'm thankful for a little bit of quiet time. No sooner had the wheels quit turning, the smell of hot oil and methanol crept silently inside with me. A haze of smoke followed, which signaled me it was time to get out. I unstrap my harness and release the hatch for some fresh air. The crew arrives and helps me out. Denis immediately takes me aside for a debriefing of the run while it's all still fresh in my memory. In the meantime the crew loads the bike in the trailer for the 5-mile haul back to the pits. All in all, not a bad a day at the office.

An excerpt from Flat Out, Motorbooks, ISBN-13 9780760331637. All rights reserved.