Speed Reading        (or 160 miles in 90 minutes) John Fante lent us his car for the trip It had a radar detector, a rear-view mirror,       everything He had been the best rally car driver in the world,       before he went blind Now he was ranked number three We began picking up speed as we came down from       the Sierra Mountains We were at 80 when we hit Reno We sling shotted around the money and sex      and were up to 100 by the time we left the county The moon was full, and our lights didn't give us  enough distance anyway, so we shut them off About 40 miles down the road Jack Kerouac screamed past us in his sister-in-law's       1940 Chevrolet He was returning it to her on the coast, the      odometer cable left a trail of sparks as it      bounced along behind him And he wasn't too far ahead when he turned off,      into the Mustang Ranch He was picking up another car, or a new woman,       it was too dark to tell which Half an hour later (we smelled the ether first)      we pulled up along side       Dr. Hunter S. Thompson hunched over the wheel The dome light was on, a burly Samoan beside him      was fixing something The engine was whining in the stainless steel,      4-wheel drive Lambourghini, he had      his foot to the floor We wouldn't have had a chance against him, except      the good doctor didn't realize       he was only in third Around the corner and over the hill, was       William S. Burroughs, hat on head,       cane in hand, thumb out and up We almost lost it as the right tires       hit the gravel We reversed right back to where he was He looked inside our car, and politely declined      the ride He waved us on our way, warning us "Never trust       a man with a wallet" We were back up to speed, and almost at our       destination when we saw the mail truck       stopped, straddling the line Again we hit the ditch, aiming for some sage       brush to slow us down But what really slowed us down was the guy we       hit, he flew 40 feet ahead, and to the left We came to a stop beside him His pants were undone, we recognized the dirty       shorts and the pock-marked face.   It was Bukowski He still had vital signs, he would be fine,       he'd had worse We left our last two bottles of red wine beside       him, and headed off to the bright lights of       Winemucca